


What is Normal Anyway?

by AutisticWriter



Series: Neurodivergent Voltron [29]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ableism, Allura & Lance (Voltron) are Siblings, Allura (Voltron)-centric, Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Anti shippers and anti kink don’t interact, Asexual Allura (Voltron), Asexual Character, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Allura (Voltron), Autistic Pidge | Katie Holt, Background Lance/Plaxum, Bisexual Alfor (Voltron), Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Pidge | Katie Holt, Blood and Injury, Britain, British Character, Bullying, Cancer, Cerebral Palsy, Complete, Crying, Developing Relationship, Disability, Dreams, Established Alforan, Falling In Love, Family, Family Drama, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, GCSEs and A Levels, Gay Coran (Voltron), Gay Male Character, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, London Underground, Multi, Multiple Sclerosis, Neurodiversity, POV First Person, Queer Themes, Racism, Religion, Sensory Overload, September 11 Attacks, Sixth Form, Slow Burn Pallura, Slurs, Special Interests, Stimming, Swearing, Teen Pregnancy, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-02 04:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 80,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14536818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: Allura Altea-Smythe is autistic. She struggles with social interaction, preferring to read and study rather than form friendships. Plagued by bullies slating her disability and her dads’ relationship, she grew to hate school.But sixth form proves to be a welcome change: Allura meets Katie Holt. Katie is kind and supportive, and proves to be the sort of person Allura has always wanted to know. Although she does begin to wonder if Katie’s feelings for her are not just platonic.But as Allura finally starts to feel like she fits in, her once stable family life is crumbling around her. Her ill father takes a drastic turn for the worse, her dads argue all the time, and her brother has a secret that threatens to damage the already fragile family relationship.Unable to cope with the changes, Allura is drawn to Katie and her ‘normal’ family. But when she discovers that Katie’s family life is not as it appears, she begins to wonder whether or not a traditional family is as important as many others think, and if who you are, rather than what you are, is really what matters.





	1. 21/08/01

Tuesday 21st August 2001

1

I am already awake when my alarm goes off, its insistent bleeping doing nothing but hurting my head. The alarm has been set at its lowest possible volume, but it hurts my ears as much as the vacuum cleaner does. I roll over and hit the button on the alarm clock. I rub my throbbing head in relief as the noise ceases. It’s set for seven thirty, but I’ve actually been awake since four – insomnia again.

I’ve never been able to just fall asleep, and I’m even worse at staying asleep, often waking up several times in the night. Dad thinks it is caused by my anxiety, but I’ve been seeing my therapist, Dr David, for six weeks now, and my sleeping hasn’t improved even slightly.

I think that Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is a load of unscientific drivel, and a waste of my time. I said this to Dr David, and he finished our session thirteen minutes earlier than necessary, and his voice was very shaky, the way Dad and Papa talk when they are trying to not have an argument.

I had to wait in the lobby of the large council building where I have my meetings with Dr David for Dad to come and pick me up. I didn’t like it. There were too many people and the woman behind the desk came over and talked to me, and she tried to touch my arm, so I flinched to get away and snapped at her. She left me alone after that.

When I asked Dad about it, he just laughed and said I really need to learn when to speak my mind, so I should keep going even if I think it’s pointless, because Dr David can teach me how to communicate better. I said it is a waste of time and the taxpayer’s money. And he said it was tough luck and I had to keep going or he and Papa would get in trouble. But now he or Papa comes with me, to “Make sure I behave.” But that’s the problem – I never realise that I am doing anything wrong.

With all my lack of sleep, it really is no wonder that I always have dark marks under my eyes. They are often so obvious that once, on the 29th May 1990, when I was five years old, my teacher, Mrs Richards, mistook them for two black eyes[1]. She immediately called social services on my parents, suspecting some kind of domestic abuse. I struggle with reading facial expressions and body language, but even I could tell that Dad and Papa didn’t take that well. Especially when we were called into a meeting with a load of social workers.

I usually have a very good memory, and am able to record almost everything that happens to me, but I don’t remember any of that meeting. This happens a lot when I am scared and stressed but, once they were deemed non-abusive parents and set free, Papa and Dad explained the whole thing to me. Apparently, I was so upset that I spent the whole meeting hiding behind Papa’s chair, clicking my fingers and rocking backwards and forwards until one of the social workers got so irritated she snapped, “What the bloody hell is that child doing?”

That was when things really went wrong: I was so scared I ran straight out of the room, pursued by Papa and a social worker, whilst Dad tried to explain that I can’t help the way I act sometimes.

After a lot more talking and proof from a doctor that showed that I didn’t have black eyes, the case was dismissed, which was good, because if they hadn’t I would have been taken away from my parents and have to live in a care home. Which would have been bad, because I never know how to get along with other people my age.

 

2

I am autistic. I was diagnosed when I was twelve. I’m sixteen now, so that was four years ago.

For a long time, we didn’t know what was wrong with me. Dad and Papa knew I was different, but didn’t know why. They said it was a relief to get the diagnosis, but for me, it just means I can say it to someone when they think I’m being strange so they understand and leave me alone. Like yesterday when I was at the bus stop with Papa and there were too many people, so I was clicking my fingers and tapping the glass with my eyes squeezed shut, and a woman came over to us. She asked me if I was okay, so I said “I have Asperger’s Syndrome. Leave me alone.” And she left me alone.

I don’t act like other people my age. My brain is wired up differently. This means that I think differently, with a fixation on science. I see everything through a scientist’s eyes. If I use the television remote to change the channel, I imagine the infra red radiation leading from the remote to the television. I know how every magic trick I’ve ever seen is done, because I’m not fooled by the distractions – I see everything, including the things they don’t want me to see. Misdirection doesn’t work on me.

I have a very good memory. I know the name and placement of every bone in the human body. My favourite is the humerus. Many people think that the humerus is the ‘funny bone’ that tingles and hurts when they bang their elbow, but that is actually a nerve[2]. The humerus is the big bone above the elbow, that joins at the top to the shoulder. It’s my favourite because on the 5th January 1997, at approximately 13:58pm, I fell over whilst running away from a bully in the school playground, and fractured it. When I got sent to hospital I had an X-ray[3] and they showed me the photographs and let me keep them. It was fascinating.

I can also name every monarch on the British throne since the Norman Invasion of 1066. I won’t name them now – it would take to long – but I may do in the future, maybe when I’m upset. Making lists calms me down.

But I will say who my favourite is – it is King George the Third. Everyone thought he was mad, but he was really ill with a blood disease called porphyria . And he managed to rule the country for sixty years. I think that shows that people with disabilities can do anything. Porphyria isn’t a disability, it’s an illness, but autism is – it’s called a developmental disability. People thought that George the Third was crazy, and people think I’m crazy when I’m scared and doing strange things. So, really, there isn’t much difference at all.

Even my parents call me crazy sometimes, mainly when I won’t eat certain foods. This is another one of my differences. I have sensory problems, which means that all of my senses are hypersensitive, apart from my sense of taste, which isn’t sensitive enough. So I have to wear sunglasses all the time to stop my eyes hurting and loud places like the town centre or the bus really hurt my ears so they feel like my eardrums are going to rupture. Strong smells give me a horrible headache, and to compensate for my weak taste buds I will only eat really strong flavours, as it is revolting to eat something that has no taste, like when you have a cold.

But I’ve learned to deal with all these problems. Apart from my sense of touch. My skin is very sensitive, and it actually hurts when something touches me, like being tapped on the shoulder, and I can’t wear some clothes, like woollen jumpers, because the coarse, scratchy wool feels totally repulsive when it touches my skin. Last time I wore wool, it made me feel so ill that I was sick all down myself. So I strive to avoid physical contact. I have never let Dad, Papa or my younger half brother Lance hug me, and I’m allowed my own desk at school as I refuse to share with someone else. But I’m never lonely – I like being alone.

Although it might be nice to know someone who understands what it’s like to be me...

 

3

I glance at my clock. It is now 7:41am, eleven minutes after my alarm went off. This happens a lot, I’m always switching off and thinking about things and totally losing track of time. But this means that I am now eleven minutes behind in my morning routine.

I like having a routine – it is very common in autistic people to like everything to have structure and order. But the bad side of this is that when I miss something in my routine, it makes me stressed, and I start clicking my fingers or do something else that calms me down like writing a list. So I decide to write down my routine, hoping that will stop my heart beating so fast.

I have routines for every type of day, but today is different to the other days in the summer holidays, so I spent an hour writing this last night.

 

> 7:30am = Wake up and switch off alarm clock
> 
> 7::39am = Get out of bed and stretch.
> 
> 7:41am = Go to the toilet.[4]
> 
> 7:45am = Go back to my bedroom and get changed. Make sure the clothes are clean first.
> 
> 7:50am = Have breakfast.
> 
> 8:05am = Brush teeth and comb hair.
> 
> 8:09am = Tidy room and make sure all my things are still in the right place.
> 
> 8:15am = Come downstairs and watch the TV with Lance.
> 
> 10:00am = Put shoes on.
> 
> 10:02am = Get into the car with Papa and Dad.
> 
> 10:20am = Arrive at school
> 
> 10:25am = Drive around until we find a parking space and park.
> 
> 10:35am = Receive my exam results.
> 
> 10:40am = Get back in car.
> 
> 10:42am = Open results and read them aloud.

This was as far as I got. Because I don’t know how my results are going to go. I want to get As in everything, but I’m scared that I won’t, that I’ll fail everything. Even biology, which is my best subject.

So now I’m even more stressed than before and it’s now 7:44am and I am very behind schedule. I kick my duvet off and get out of bed, deciding to skip my stretches to catch up on some of the lost time.

I detest the sensation of carpet touching my skin, so our house has linoleum floorings throughout. My feet are slightly sweaty, and they make a strange noise as I walk across my bedroom to the door. I like this noise, so I press my feet down harder to make it louder.

I unbolt my door, and head down the landing and into the bathroom. Dad dislikes the fact that I have a bolt on my door, but Papa encouraged it. He said that if anything would help me sleep better, we should try it. And it does help – I feel a lot safer with my door locked.

Once I’m back in my bedroom, I get dressed. Just as I am putting on my socks, I hear a knock on my door. I look up, and see my brother Lance poke his head into the room. He’s wearing a yellow beanie hat with a blue Adidas logo, and all of his chin length hair is hidden under the hat. I immediately know that he has done something to his hair, because Lance never hides his hair. He is one of those boys who stare at themselves in the mirror and put lots of sticky gel in their hair so it stands up in strange shapes.

So I ask, “Why are you hiding your hair?”

“Ssh!” Lance comes right into my room, but stops two metres away from me. “You talk too loud.”

He’s right – I struggle to regulate the volume of my voice. In fact, I often wonder exactly how people know at what volume they are speaking, because I have no idea and have to guess. Like with many things in my life, this has caused people to mock me and made me look stupid in public.

“Why are you hiding your hair?” This time, I drop my voice as best as I can.

Lance takes a deep breath, the way I do when I’m starting to panic and I need to calm down. Then he pulls his hat off and exposes his hair. It’s blond. Lance’s once brown hair is now bleach blond, and it flops forwards, obscuring one-and-a-half of his eyes. He obviously hasn’t gelled it this morning. The unnatural colour of his hair is a contrast to redness of his eyes – the whites of his eyes are horribly bloodshot. The last time he looked so bad was when he got drunk and had a hangover, so that must have been why he got in so late last night. He tried to be quiet, but I heard him moving around because I was awake and have very sensitive hearing.

“I fell asleep at a party last night – and Plaxum did it while I was drunk.” Lance says, very slowly, confirming my suspicions. He rubs his bloodshot eyes, his face shining with sweat. “It looks awful, doesn’t it?” I think this is one of those questions Dr David told me about, where someone sounds like they are asking you a question, but actually want reassurance. But I can’t lie, so I tell him what I think.

“Yes, it does,” I agree. “Who’s Plaxum?”

Lance shakes his head. “She’s my girlfriend, Allura. How many times do I have to say it?”

“I don’t know whether or not you have told Dad and Papa, but you have never told me.” I tell him, disliking the way Lance accused me of being an idiot. “If you had told me, I would have remembered.”

“Sorry,” He yawns loudly. “God, I’m tired.” I don’t understand why non-religious people mention God in this way, because if you don’t believe in something, why would you try to talk to it? And why would God, if he could possibly exist, care whether Lance is tired or not?

Then he adds, “I’m going to try and hide this -” He points to his hair to make sure I understand what he is talking about. “- from Dad and Papa – so don’t say anything. Okay?” He says the last bit with his teeth gritted. I think he is trying to threaten me.

“It won’t work,” I say, which is true. It isn’t possible for him to hide his hair from both of our parents. Even if he can avoid them for ages, the moment they see him trying to hide it, they will get suspicious like I did, and they will find out. But then I add, just to be polite, “I won’t say anything.”

Lance seems satisfied by my answer, and walks off. I put on my watch and, seeing it is now 7:51am, I run out of the room, and across the landing. But as I reach the top of the staircase, I glance at the door of Dad and Papa’s bedroom, and see it is ajar. They only shut their door when they are in bed, and I can hear Papa clattering about in the kitchen downstairs, so Dad must still be at home. And he should have left for work at 5:55am as he usually does. Which means he must be feeling ill.

Dad has been unwell far too much lately. For the last few weeks, he has been getting bad headaches that aren’t relieved by normal painkillers, but they have increased in frequency, so he gets a headache almost every day now.

And last week, Dad got a huge, violent nosebleed. The strange thing is, we have no idea what caused it. It went on for twenty minutes and blood came out of his nose and also ran down his throat. This meant it was called a posterior[5] nosebleed, and so much blood went down Dad’s throat that he vomited everywhere. Papa and I took him to accident and emergency, where they managed to stop the blood flow by doing something called nasal packing. This rather fascinating procedure involved spraying the insides of Dad’s nostrils with local anaesthetic and then packing both of his nostrils with gauze to stop the blood leaking out of the wound. He had to stay in hospital for 36 hours, and wasn’t allowed to lay down for all of this time in case he was sick again. Yet when he was released, Dad didn’t go and see our GP – he just pretended it never happened.

And he still won’t see a doctor. He insists that he is fine, and that nothing is wrong, but I cannot believe that someone can have repeated, severe head pains and a violent nosebleed that required hospitalisation and not be ill. Especially when I did some research on Papa’s computer and found that some of the possible causes of his symptoms were worryingly severe.

I choose to not disturb him, and hurry off. Partly because he might shout at me like he did to Lance yesterday when Lance was talking too loud, but mainly because thinking about him being ill is making me stressed, my fingers clicking.

When I enter the living room, I see a breakfast tray on the coffee table which has my usual food choices on it, along with an envelope. The envelope is dark blue, my favourite colour, and my name is written in Papa’s small, shaky handwriting.

_To Allura_

I am very hungry, so I pick up the tray and place it on my lap. I’m still very nervous, so I make a list of my breakfast items to calm myself down.

  1. A bowl sugar puffs, but without milk[6].
  2. Two slices of brown toast with Marmite and no butter[7]
  3. A glass of orange juice.



I have eaten my sugar puffs and one slice of toast when Papa comes into the living room from the kitchen. He comes and sits down beside me on the sofa.

“Do you want to open the card, love?” He asks me. His voice is hoarse, like he has a cold. But he hasn’t got a cold – I think he may have been crying.

“Have you been crying?” I ask back, ignoring his question. I think my question is more important.

Papa jumps, making the whole sofa jolt slightly. “H-have I been crying?”

I don’t know why he has just repeated my question back to me. “Yes.” I pause, and then add, “So, have you been crying?”

He sighs. “Yes, I have.”

“Is it because you are worried about Dad?”

“Yes,” He repeats his voice very shaky. “Please open the envelope, Allura.”

I recognise this as an attempt to change the subject. As I don’t want him to start crying on me, I do as he says, and pick up the envelope. I slide my finger under the flap and break the seal. I remove the card, and look at it.

The words **Good Luck** are at the top, written in bold blue, and there is a picture below it. The picture is of a cat sat on a tree branch, whilst a gang of birds try to cut the branch off with a saw. I’m confused, because I don’t see the link between the writing and the picture. I open the card, and read through the message.

 

> _To our darling daughter Allura,_
> 
> _Good luck with your exam results today. We’re sure you’ve done brilliantly, and we will always be proud of you, however you do._
> 
> _Lots f love and hugs (if you’ll let us!)_
> 
> _From Dad and Papa xxx_

And below that, Lance had written:

 

> _Good luck today, sis. You’re so clever, I’m sure you’ve done great. From Lance._
> 
> _And he drew a smiley face like this :D_

I hold out my hand to Papa, and he grasps it, interlocking our fingers. This is what I do with my parents and Lance when they want a hug, because it is still intimate, but nowhere near as scary as hugging. And because Dr David says that I should try and be polite to people even if I don’t understand why, I say, “Thank you for the card, Papa.”

I expect him to say ‘You’re welcome,’ but all I can hear is a strange whimpering noise, like when I trod on a dog’s tail and it was in pain. I quickly look at Papa’s face out of the corner of my eye, and I can see his bottom lip wobbling, and his eyes are very wet and shiny. And, just as I am about to ask him what’s wrong, Papa makes a squealing sound, lets go of my hand, and rushes out of the room.

I don’t know what to do, so I switch the television on and finish eating my breakfast. When I hear Papa crying, I put my hands over my ears and turn the TV up louder to drown out the sound.

 

4

When Papa comes out of the kitchen, his breathing is very wobbly. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and see that his eyelashes are spikey and his cheeks are very red, almost as red as his ginger hair. His moustache has gone limp from getting wet with sweat and tears, so he shapes it with trembling fingers.

I take my hands off of my ears, but don’t speak to him.

“Allura?” Papa says, his voice shaking.

I say nothing. I don’t want to talk to him in case he starts crying again.

Papa says my name again three more times, but he gets distracted when Lance comes into the room. He’s still wearing the beanie hat, but has changed from his pyjamas in to his jeans and a red polo shirt.

As I suspected, Papa goes up to him, and says, “What’s with the hat, Lance?”

Lance steps backwards, obscuring my view of the television. But I’m not watching it. I’m more interested watching Lance find out that I was right and he was wrong.

“What hat?” He asks, very quickly. I don’t think that I am the only one who thinks this is a redundant question.

“Wh – the one on your head!”

“Oh,” Lance says. “This hat?” He points to his head.

And Papa says, “Isn’t that obvious?” I presume he’s asking a rhetorical question.

Before Lance has a chance to reply, Papa darts forwards and pulls the hat off of Lance’s head.

“What the hell have you done to your hair?” Papa says. Lance tenses up, as if he’s expecting Papa to hit him, but then Papa does something neither of us expects. He starts laughing.

This doesn’t make sense, so I say, “Why are you laughing, Papa?”

Lance doesn’t say anything.

When Papa manages to stop laughing, he splutters out, “I’m laughing because your brother’s so silly.”

I’m still confused.

“In what way?” Lance asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

Papa sighs. “Look, Lance,” he says. “I’m not angry with you. I just think you’re silly getting all worried like that.”

And then he says, “You know, I actually think it suits you. You should keep it that colour.”

“What? Really?” Lance says.

“You think it suits him?” I say. “But it looks awful.”

They both ignore me. Lance thanks Papa and gives him a hug, and Papa says that he is welcome, and rubs Lance’s hair. I don’t like watching people be affectionate, so I get up and head up to my bedroom.

I check the time on my watch. It is 8:15am. I’m really behind schedule now, so I hurry into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

I kneel down and remove my box from the bottom draw of the bathroom cabinet. It contains my toothbrush (pink), a tube of toothpaste that only I use, a spare toothbrush in case I contaminate my usual one by dropping it on the floor or touching it against the side of the sink or the tap, my bottle of mouthwash (pink), and my hairbrush (pink). In case it isn’t already obvious, I like the colour pink.

I brush my teeth and rinse mouthwash around my mouth. My toothpaste and mouthwash are strawberry flavoured, as I can’t stand the taste of mint. I then run my hairbrush through my long, wavy hair twenty times, and put everything back in the box.

As I am putting the box back in the draw, someone knocks on the door twice.

“Allura? Are you in here?” It’s Dad. His voice is very slow, and he sounds like he did when he had his nosebleed, the way people do when they have a cold and their nose is blocked up with mucus.

I open the door, and look at Dad. He has his hand over his nose and mouth, but blood is seeping through the gaps between his fingers. He must have another nosebleed.

I did a first aid course at school last year, and I learned what to do when someone has a nosebleed. So, I gesture for Dad to come into the room and sit on the closed toilet seat. He does so, but his legs wobble so much that I think he may fall over. It is a relief when he sits down safely.

“Tip your head forwards[8] and pinch your nose.” I say, pulling seventeen sheets of toilet paper off of the roll, bundling them up into a ball, and pressing them into Dad’s free hand.

“Yes, doctor.” Dad laughs, but stops when it makes him cough.

“I’m not a doctor.” And I don’t want to be either. I want to do a job where I can be a diplomat or something like that.

I check my watch. It’s 8:21am, so if the bleeding hasn’t stopped by 8:41am, we will need to take him to hospital.

But, by 8:32am, the bleeding has stopped. I sit on the edge of the bath and watch Dad as he scrubs the congealed blood off of his face. The rubbing makes his skin look sore, and I am once again struck by how dull his normally bright skin looks. Once he is clean, I expect Dad to leave the bathroom, but he leans against the sink and looks at me.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but then he says, “Allura. You won’t tell Papa about this, will you?”

And, because I don’t understand him, I say, “About what?”

“About me getting that nosebleed,” He explains. I stare at his hands as he speaks, watching him try to get the dry blood out from underneath his fingernails.

“Why?” I ask.

Dad exhales sharply. “Because I don’t want him to know about it.”

“Why?” I repeat.

“Please, Allura. Just promise me you won’t tell Papa that I had a nosebleed.” He says, being very specific to make sure I understand.

“Is it because you don’t want to make him cry? Because he was crying earlier.”

“That’s it exactly, sweetheart,” Dad says, and now, when I manage to look at his face quickly, he looks sad. “I don’t want him to worry. You know how much he worries about everything.”

That is true – Papa has serious anxiety problems. If anxiety was hereditary and Papa was my biological parent, I would have presumed that I inherited my anxiety from him.

Then Dad adds, “So, do you promise not to tell Papa that I had a nosebleed?”

Just to make him go away, as I am starting to feel stressed, I say, “I promise.”

“Thanks, Allura. And you were very good at looking after me.” And then he walks off, and goes back into his bedroom.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to hide anything from Papa, but I don’t want to break my promise. I wish I hadn’t made a promise to Dad now. I wish he had never come in with a nosebleed. I wish Dad wasn’t getting so ill.

Sighing, I take a deep breath and head downstairs, wishing I could stop feeling so sick. Why did Dad have to ask me to lie?

 

6

My family is very complicated.

As I mentioned before, Lance is my step brother. At least, he would be, if Dad and Papa could legally get married.

Papa is from New Zealand. Apparently, his home country is quite accepting of queer people, but the Smythe family is very religious and, unfortunately, very homophobic. So Papa didn’t want to face the prejudice of being gay, so he lied and married a woman, who is Lance’s mum. But it turns out that Lance’s mum can’t have children, so they made plans to adopt Lance, the baby of a young Cuban woman who wanted to put her baby up for adoption (he was born on the 15th June 1987, and officially adopted only a couple of weeks later) Life seemed good for Papa, but, in 1988, he told his wife that he was gay. She divorced him.

Lance lived with her until he was two. But that was when she found out Lance has ADHD[9]. And she couldn’t cope with such a hyperactive child. So, in 1989, Lance went to live with Papa. Lance only sees his mum in the summer holidays now.

After he divorced Lance’s mum, Papa moved to England. Away from his homophobic family, Papa didn’t have to hide his sexuality, and he met Dad in 1988. They have been together ever since.

Dad told me that he is bisexual, which means that he finds both men and women attractive. He is different to Papa, because Papa is homosexual, so he only finds men attractive.

So Dad, before he met Papa, had had a wife, who was my other biological parent. I was born on the 2nd May 1985, but my mother died in 1986, when I was eighteen months old. Dad said she died of cervical cancer, but when she died it had spread to her blood, so she actually died of leukaemia. Dad never talks about my mother – I think it makes him sad.

So, even though he isn’t my biological parent, I call Papa ‘Papa’, because I have lived with him since I was three years old, and I don’t know anyone else who is more of a parent to me – except Dad.

Until last month, I thought that Dad and Papa were married, but they explained to me that two men cannot get married to each other. I had assumed that they were married because the other people at school all have married parents, so I thought that mine would be too.

“But this is 2001,” I said. “I thought that now it’s the twenty first century, people are supposed to be more accepting.”

Papa looked very sad when he said, “I know lovie – but, really, no one is equal. I mean, there are laws in place to stop schools discriminating against people with disabilities, but your school was still awkward when we tried to get to get you help in your GCSEs, weren’t they?”

“And think about the anti-racism laws,” Lance added, a bitter tone to his voice. “But they didn’t stop those people being dicks to me and you and Dad on the train that time.”

I think I knew what they both meant. I think what Papa and Lance were trying to say to me was that whilst laws can be put in place to protect groups of people; those laws cannot change the negative attitudes that the rest of the population have towards that group.

But I don’t understand it – how can you hate someone just because of their gender, their sexual orientation, their age, their race, their nationality or anything like this? I only hate people because they are horrible to me or my family. That is normal. I think.

What is not normal is the way Dad, Papa, Lance and I all get treated. We all get abuse for Dad and Papa being a couple, from people calling me names at school to someone throwing a brick through our window or that man who punched Papa in the face on 26th March 2000, and made him need three stitches in his lip.

We get abuse because Lance is Cuban and Dad and I are black, and people are horrible racist arseholes who call us slurs and even tried to beat Dad up once (before Papa used his old military training to, as Lance called it, ‘beat the fucking shit out of the bastard’).

And as well as that, people are horrible to us because of my autism. A group of girls at school call me a _spazzy_ , and someone’s mum said to Dad that they are wasting their time putting me in a _normal_ school, and that people _like me_ need to go to _special schools and stay out of sight._ When Dad, who was so upset he punched the wall and a chunk of plaster fell off, told me what happened, he used his fingers to put the words in italics in quotation marks. I told the girl that I’m not a _spazzy_ , and I am actually very intelligent, but then she called me a _know it all bitch_ , and Dad tried to explain to the mum that I am clever enough to go to a _normal_ school, and that she was being very offensive, but that didn’t stop her being rude about me.

But despite all of the horrible things people say to me, I would not swap Dad and Papa for _normal_ parents, because they are kind and support me when I do strange things, which is more important to me than having a mother and a father. And even though it makes me act oddly and people are cruel about it, I would rather being autistic than not, because I like the way my brain works. It must be boring to have a _normal_ brain.

 

7

Once I have persuaded myself to not mention the distressing scene I have just witnessed, I come into the living room, but stand in the doorway. Papa and Lance are sat on the sofa, and they are talking in whispers. They don’t notice that I am here, and I don’t plan on telling them.

“...What’re we going to do with him?” Lance is saying, and he flings his hands around in the air as he speaks.

I don’t hear what Papa says, but then Lance replies, “But what if there’s something seriously wrong?”

I want to know what they are talking about and join in their conversation, so I walk around the corner so they can see me. They both jump, and turn round, so they are looking in my direction.

“Hi, Allura, love. How’re you feeling?” Papa asks, twisting the ends of his moustache and giving me one of those big smiles that are clearly fake.

“Are you talking about Dad?” I say.

Papa quickly looks at Lance. They stare at each other for four seconds, and Lance mouths something to Papa. Then Papa turns back to me.

“N-no. No, we’re not,” He says. And then he stands up and comes over to me. He stops just over two metres away, and says, “Do you want to go to school and get your results?”

“Will Dad will be coming?” I say, wanting him to answer my question. I think of my schedule, and remember that I put that both Papa and Dad will be coming with me.

Papa sighs. “No, Allura, he’s not coming. His feels too ill.”

“What about, Lance?” I say to my brother. “Will you come with us?”

But Lance also stands up, and says, “Sorry, Allura. I’d love to, but I’m meeting Plaxum in town.” He looks at his watch, and then adds, “Oh, crap!” And he runs out into the hallway. A few seconds later, I hear the door slam shut.

“Can you please be quiet?” Dad shouts from upstairs. He is never normally angry like this, and it sounds strange to have my usually passive Dad sounding so angry over nothing. Papa goes out into the hallway, and calls back up the stairs.

“Sorry about that, love. Lance slammed the door because he’s in a rush.” Dad doesn’t reply. Then Papa comes back into the living room.

Papa holds out his hand. I don’t take it. “Don’t you want to get your results, love?”

So I say, “I do. But I want Dad to come too.”

I hate it when things do not go as I planned. It makes me anxious.

“Allura,” Papa breathes out slowly, and his nose whistles. “Dad can’t come with us.”

“Why?”

And he says, “Just go upstairs and take one look at your dad. I’m telling you, he’s too ill to come with us.”

He doesn’t understand. I know that Dad is ill. I know he has a headache. I know he had a nosebleed earlier. I know he feels far too ill to come with us. I know that he won’t be able to come. But that doesn’t stop me getting anxious now I know my plans have changed.

I take a deep breath and click my fingers. I breathe in, count to ten, and then breathe out. My fingers stop clicking. Then I walk out into the hallway, pull on my trainers, and open the front door.

I am stood by the car on the driveway when Papa catches up with me. He walks very slowly, but eventually reaches me and unlocks the car.

“Thanks, Allura,” He says. He seems to be happy, but I am only going along with this so he doesn’t get angry with me. I hate being shouted at – it makes me stressed.

Although we are the only two getting in the car, I sit in the back behind the passenger seat. I always sit here when all four of us are in the car together, and it has become my seat. I can’t sit in my seat if I find out that someone else has sat there. Papa puts the key in the ignition, and we drive off.

Our car is specially adapted for Papa’s needs. He leases it on the Motability scheme, which exists to help disabled people own an adapted car that they would not otherwise be able to afford, and he pays for with his Disability Living Allowance money.

He is on DLA because Papa has Multiple Sclerosis. This is a neurological condition where the coatings of his nerves[10] are damaged. Papa has a type of MS called relapsing and remitting, which means that it gets worse for a period of time, and then it gets a lot better for a while, and this repeats for the rest of his life. He is in the remitting phase at the moment, so Papa can walk with the aid of a walking stick. When he has relapsed, he can only get around using his electric wheelchair, and he has to sleep on the sofa bed downstairs. This first started when he was 22, and it resulted in him having to leave the New Zealand army.

Our car is adapted to make driving as easy as possible for Papa. Both front seats are swivel seats, so he can get in with less effort. And, because Papa has a foot drop – which means that the muscles in his ankle don’t work and his foot drops down when he walks, making his toes drag and causing him to trip; he uses a ankle brace, but he still has mobility problems – he cannot use the foot break, so a break has been attached to the steering wheel so Papa can use his hand instead.

I close my eyes and lean back into the headrest. I can never keep my eyes open during a car journey. When I said I see everything, I meant that literally. When I look out of the window as the car speeds along the duel carriageway, my eyes see and my brain processes everything. And when I can see blue cars and red cars and white cars and three dogs and trees and seven different types of clouds and a ambulance with its lights flashing and a road traffic collision all at the same time, it makes me feel ill. My head throbs, my heart palpitates and I feel nauseous. If this carries on for too long, I end up vomiting.

Dr David says this is called sensory overload. And, as I dislike this happening, I try to avoid sensory overloads occurring. Which is why I only open my eyes when Papa pulls into a parking space, and the engine stops.

We have arrived at the school. And I don’t want to get out of the car.

 

8

I hated school.

I know I am prone to overcomplicating things, but it really is that simple. I absolutely hated the place.

I hated primary school. The other children would never let me play with them. And I didn’t want to play with them, because I didn’t know how to. My motor skills have always been too poor to be good at sports – if I tried to join in a game of football, it was guaranteed that I would fall over and end up in the medical room – so I was ignored by the boys, and the girls didn’t like me because I lacked the imagination to play tea parties or ‘mummies and daddies’.

Lance tried to get his friends to let me play with Lego with them, but they didn’t like the fact that I was selfish and tried to boss them all around, and eventually refused to play with _Lance’s retard sister_. I hate the dreaded ‘r word’; to me and my family, it is almost as painful to hear as the ‘n word’ (which I have also been called).

So I would spend every break and lunch time wandering around the playground on my own. Sometimes, I would sit on a bench and read, but that made me a target for bullies who, if they took my book off of me, would throw it in a puddle or onto the roof. And then they would laugh as I cried.

Of course, I did enjoy my lessons. Well, most of them. I loved my maths and science and history lessons, and even liked literacy, but we did too much art and music and drama and physical education, subjects that I cannot do and that I consistently failed, until my teachers got concerned about my constant fail grades. But they were confused, because I wasn’t stupid – I just could not understand how to act, or draw, or write music.

But even the lessons I was good at became a misery. I was very fast at answering questions, and asked for extension work long before anyone else finished. So the other children called me a _swat_ and a _nerd_. I tried to tell them that I was not a swat. I just have a good memory. But this did not stop them. It made them worse.

And one girl, called Susan Gates, decided to call me a _spazzy_ after I started screaming when someone touched my shoulder. After that, I was called the _spaz_ for the rest of my time at primary school.

But, if it seems possible, my time at secondary school were even worse. After spending seven years at a small town primary school, I now had to share a building with over a thousand other people. I had to take so many subjects I was awful at, and I had lots of different teachers. Most were accommodating of my needs – like my need to have my own desk or leave lessons early to avoid the rush in the corridors – but one, who happened to be my English teacher, was awkward. She never let me leave her lessons early, gave me detentions when I was naughty – and by naughty she meant screaming or putting my hands over my ears when I got upset – and she never told people off when they were mean to me about my autism or my parents’ relationship.

In fact, on the 31st October 1999, when we had to do debating as part of our GCSE English Language course, she said that “Two men shouldn’t be allowed to raise children”. That made me really upset, and my fingers started clicking, but I managed to ask her why she had such a negative stance on my family. She told me that it was against her religious beliefs, so I asked her to give me one reason that didn’t mention religion. She couldn’t think of one – so I got a detention. And after that, everyone knew that I had same gender parents, and the homophobic bullying from primary school came back - but now it was even worse.

I was followed wherever I went around the school, and people constantly made horrible comments, or tried to trip me, or opened by backpack and tipped my books all over the floor. This made me so angry and stressed that I started screaming, and hit three different people in the face on different occasions. I spent hours in the head teacher’s office, and many more in detentions, and, even though Dad and Papa tried to explain that I have autism (but only after my diagnosis on 5th May 1997), I still ended up in trouble for things that I didn’t mean to do.

By the time I reached the second term of third year, I refused to go to school at all. I stayed in bed in the mornings, and screamed if Dad or Papa suggested that I go in to school that day. I just could not face the bullies any more. After three weeks spent arguing about it, Dad and Papa decided to home school me for the rest of third year.

I remember that conversation well – it was 18:37pm on the 23rd January 1999 when Dad and Papa came into my bedroom. I expected them to start telling me about going to school again, and hid my head under my pillow to make it clear I was ignoring them.

But then Papa said, “Allura?” And he did not say anything else, and I heard him sit down on my swivelling desk chair.

And then Dad said, “We’ve got something exciting to tell you,” Dad and I have different ideas of what exciting means; to me, something exciting is like me getting a new science book, or visiting the natural history museum in London, SW7 5BD. But excitement has a different definition for Dad – he thinks that paying off the mortgage or getting a Christmas bonus is exciting. So I didn’t answer when he said that, as I thought it would be a waste of time.

But Papa then added, “Me and Dad have been talking, and ... well ...” His voice trailed off. I could hear him rapping a tune into my wooden desk with the handle of his walking stick. It was the theme tune to _The Simpsons_.

So Dad finished Papa’s sentence for him, “And we’ve decided that it would be best for all four of us if Papa homeschooled you, for the rest of the school year.”

I sat up sharply, and said, “Really?”

Dad insisted that they were telling the truth, so I added, “Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Papa.”

I smiled at them, which I do very rarely, because I do not understand the point of it, and only do it because it is what one is supposed to do in these situations. And I let them both hold my hands at the same time, and said, “Thank you,” over and over again. After weeks of being tormented at school, I could finally say I was happy.

I liked being home schooled. Unlike the school, nothing in our house makes me anxious or upset, and I could mould my lessons around my daily routine, and not the other way round. And no one bullied me.

But, on 1st September 1999, when fourth year was about to start, I realised that Dad and Papa were going to send me back to school. And I panicked. I really panicked. I was very nauseous, my heart rate got so fast I began to hyperventilate, I couldn’t stop screaming, and I got so lightheaded that I fainted. And, as I fell, I hit my head into the wall. I knocked myself unconscious, but, because I had locked myself into my bedroom, no one found out until I woke up and stumbled out onto the landing. Papa saw me with blood on my face, and he screamed, like the way I scream when I am scared. Dad didn’t scream; he took one look at he and ran straight back down the stairs.

I had to go to hospital. They took me in an ambulance, but the paramedics had to turn off the siren as it hurt my ears, and I wouldn’t let any of them touch me. One of them got angry with Dad and asked him “What’s the bloody point of having her in here if I can’t check the severity of her injuries?” I decided that I didn’t like him and didn’t talk to him when he asked me questions. When we arrived at the hospital, the paramedic said, “Thank God,” Dad stuck his middle finger up at the paramedic when he turned his back. We had to wait in A&E for eight minutes, and then I had a CT scan to check for brain trauma and ended up leaving twelve hours later with six stitches in my forehead. I still have the scar just above my left eyebrow.

So after that incident, Dad and Papa continued to home school me. I only went back to school to sit my GCSE exams. The school were very awkward, and didn’t want to make special considerations. But Dad and Papa kept asking, and, when my exams came around, I was allowed to sit them all in a room by myself, away from the main exam hall. My one-to-one learning support assistant from when I went to school full time, Mr Allard, was my invigilator. I like him because he let me get out of my seat and walk around the room during my exams, and he didn’t tell me off for reading the questions aloud or making strange noises

I have not seen any other students since before the Christmas holidays in third year, and the thought of seeing all the people who bullied me (Dad calls them all _little bastards_ ) again makes me feel sick. Really sick. I remember everything they said to me, every time I was tripped or punched or pushed or had my belongings damaged or stolen. I can feel my body shaking, my fingers clicking, my chest pressing on my lungs so I can’t breathe deeply enough.

“Allura? Can you hear me, love? Allura?” I can hear Papa, but his voice sounds strange, as though he is underwater or speaking to me through a microphone. “Allura?”

Which is why I am sitting in the car with Papa saying my name again and again, and refusing to move. Because I think that if I do move I will be sick. And I still don’t want to get out of the car. I want to go home. I hate this place.

 

9

“I want to stay here,” I say. I can’t tell at what volume I’m speaking at because my ears are ringing – I could be whispering or I could be screaming at the top of my voice. “I can’t go out there.”

I hear Papa sigh, and, when I open my eyes and look quickly at his face out of the corner of my eye, there are tears in his eyes. I feel sad for making him upset, but I cannot help it. I am just so scared.

“D-do you want me to go and get your results for you, love?” He asks.

“Yes,” I say. But then I remember what Dr David told me about being polite, and I add, “Yes please.”

Now he smiles. “Okay, love. I’ll just go and pick your results up and then I’ll be right back.” Papa grabs his walking stick from the passenger seat, gets out of the car and locks me in. He waves at me through the windscreen and then limps off towards the sports hall. He shouldn’t take too long to get there even with his slow walking speed, because Papa parked in a disabled bay, which is right in front of the school, so he should not have too far to walk.

I’m calming down, but I can’t help but be paranoid now I am alone. I stare out of the window and see all of the other students walking across the campus towards the hall. None of them notice that I am here, let alone look at me, but I convince myself that one of the people who bullied me is going to come over and break into the car. I know I am being ridiculous, but I still shift in my seat so I am lying down, making sure my head is out of view.

This makes me a lot more relaxed. As I wait for Papa to return, I trace my finger along a tear in the leather seat. I remember how the tear got there. It was three weeks ago, and Lance and I were having a ‘sword fight’ with two of Papa’s walking sticks in the back of the car. When Papa shouted at us to stop it, he made me jump, and the end of the walking stick dug into the seat, and tore a five inch rip in the leather. Papa was not nearly as angry as I thought he would be, in fact, he didn’t say anything to me or Lance about it, and he hasn’t since.

I jump as something hits the window by my head. It happens again, and I curl up and hide my face. It’s my bullies, they’re here to torment me, I just know it. I don’t even yell at them to leave me alone – I just try to hide, although that is stupid, because they already know I am here, but I can’t seem to think straight.

“Allura?” But then I hear a voice, and realise who is really there. It isn’t a gang who want to beat me up. It’s Lance.

He knocks on the window again. “Are you alright? Where’s Papa?”

I roll onto my back, and look out of the window, everything appearing upside down. Lance is staring at me. I can see a teenage girl stood beside him, but I cannot hear what she is saying.

Slowly, I sit up, and turn around so I am facing them both. Once I have checked that no one else is with them, I lean down and turn the handle at the bottom of my door, making my window open halfway.

“What are you doing here, Lance?” I say. Then I turn to the girl, who has dark blonde hair tied up in a plait, and is wearing three faux gold bangles on her wrist. They make a pleasant sound as they clank together. “And who are you?”

Lance puts his hands on the roof of the car and leans forwards. “We came to see what your results are? Are you okay? You look stressed.”

And the girl says, “I’m Plaxum, Lance’s girlfriend. You must be Allura.” She doesn’t hold out her hand as people usually do, so Lance must have told her about my autism and how I never shake hands with anyone.

So I say, “Yes. Hello, Plaxum.” And then I say to Lance. “I was too scared to go and get my results, so Papa has gone to get them for me and I stayed in the car, and then I thought you were bullies who were going to break the car open and beat me up.”

“O...kay,” Lance says. He and Plaxum look at each other. Then he says, “Can we come in – it’s as windy as hell out here.”

I don’t understand his simile, but I open the dashboard and find the spare car keys. I pass them to Lance through the open window, and he unlocks the driver’s door. This unlocks every door, and Lance and Plaxum both get into the car, Lance in the passenger seat and Plaxum beside me in the back.

Lance turns around in his seat so he is facing Plaxum. “Have you met our parents yet, Plax? I can’t remember?”

“I don’t think so,” Plaxum replies.

I tune out of their conversation as they continue to talk. I have never liked small talk. Instead, I stare out of the window in the direction of the sports hall, and try to spot Papa coming back out.

After doing this for five minutes and twenty seconds, I see him. He’s carrying an envelope. An envelope with my results in it.

When Papa reaches the car, he opens the driver’s door, and he looks at Lance. He does what I believe is called a double take.

“Where they bloody hell did you come from? You’re supposed to be in town.” He says. And then he sees Plaxum.

Before Papa has a chance to speak, Lance says, “We came to surprise Allura.” Then he turns so he is looking both at Papa and Plaxum at the same time, and says, “This is Plaxum, Papa. You know, my girlfriend.”

Papa holds out his hand, and Plaxum shakes it. “It’s good to meet you, Plaxum. Lance’s told me a lot about you.”

“It’s good to meet you too, sir,” Plaxum says.

“Sir?” He chuckles.

“Yeah,” Plaxum says. “My mum always tells me to call adults by their full name. But I don’t know your surname, so I called you Sir. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is, love. And you can call me Coran.”

“Okay...Coran,” She giggles.

“You’re so polite, Plaxum. Unlike these two monsters.”Papa sits down in the driver’s seat and puts the key in the ignition.

“Hey!” Lance says.

And I say, “I resent that accusation, Papa. We’re both reasonably well behaved.”

Papa sighs. He puts the hand break back on and turns around so he is facing me. “I was joking, Allura,” He says, but he doesn’t sound angry. And then he holds out the envelope.

I take it from him, and stare at it. The envelope is brown, and my full name is written on a white sticker, that is stuck in the middle, although it is slightly off centre.

“Go on, Allura.” Lance says. “Open it.”

I turn the envelope over and break the seal. There is only a single, white sheet of paper inside.

“Well?” Lance says.

I take the sheet of paper out and stare at it. I cannot believe it. I close my eyes, and open them again. It still says the same thing. I didn’t expect this. How did this happen?

 

10

I read through the list of subjects and grades for a third time. Despite my photographic memory, I can’t remember them. I have to keep running my eyes over my results again and again, but they will not stick in my head. So I read them again, and again, and again.

 

> Biology - A*
> 
> Chemistry - A*
> 
> Physics - A*
> 
> Mathematics - A
> 
> English Language - A
> 
> English Literature - B
> 
> Geography - B
> 
> Spanish - A
> 
> History - A

I’m shocked. I mean, I expected to do well in the sciences and maths because I find them so easy, but I didn’t think I would get the top grade in each of them. And I am truly amazed that I got an A in history – I struggled so much with understanding the sources I had to interpret that I really I expected to fail.

“What does it say?” Papa asks. “Is it good news?”

I nod, swallowing hard. My throat is dry and my hands are shaking, but I read my results aloud. As I do, Lance starts applauding, and Papa gasps. When I have told them the results for all nine subjects, I rest the paper on my lap, and look up.

Papa holds out his hand, and I grip it tightly.

“Well done, Allura,” He says. “I knew you’d do brilliantly.”

Lance agrees with him, “You’re so clever, Allura. I wish I could get so many good grades.”

Even Plaxum, who has only known me for approximately fifteen minutes, congratulates me, “Well done, Allura.”

I do not know what to say. So I say nothing. I just smile, and read the list of grades again. They are good. Good enough for me to get into sixth form.

I got a conditional offer form the sixth form on 30th March, where they said I could only take my A levels if I received eight B grades at GCSE. Which means that I can enrol on enrolment day next week. This is going to be the start of my further education. Now I have good GCSEs, I can get my A levels in Biology, Chemistry and Mathematics. And then I can go to university, and do a degree, and then a Masters degree, and then maybe even a PhD so I can become a professor. I can’t think of a better job than talking about something I love all day.

I close my eyes and rest my head on my now closed window. I hear Papa and Lance talking about my grades, I hear Lance ask Papa to drop him and Plaxum into the town centre, I hear Lance and Plaxum discussing which shops they want to visit, but I don’t involve myself in their conversations.

I just think about how, for the first time in weeks, I really do feel happy. Happy because things, for once, have been better than I anticipated.

And it has been so long since I was last happy that I forgot how good it feels.

 

11

Not every list I have received has given such exciting news. When I was diagnosed with autism on 5th May 1997, the diagnosis included a list of exactly how my disability has an impact on my behaviour:

  1. Not making eye contact with others.
  2. Struggling to read emotions through people’s facial expressions, body language or voice.
  3. Not understanding jokes and taking everything literally.
  4. Relying on a set routine, and feeling ill if the routine is changed.
  5. Disliking being touched.
  6. Not understanding when my actions are putting me or others in danger[11].
  7. Struggling to socially interact with other people my age.



Dad and Papa found it very difficult to read. They said it made them upset to see just how much my life is affected by the autism. They have not read it since.

I dislike reading it because it just shows all of the ways my autism affects me in a negative way – it does not take into account how my autism makes me inquisitive, and gives me the ability to absorb and retain large amounts of information. It makes it seem that having autism is a bad thing.

I admit that there are some bad parts, but it doesn’t change the fact that I love who I am.

 

12

Papa and I arrive back at home at 11:59am. As soon as he has parked the car, I hurry up the front steps, unlock the front door with my house key that I always keep in my jacket pocket that has a zip.

I enter the living room, and am surprised to see Dad on the sofa bed. He is propped up with a pillow and is covered in a blanket, but he is sat up and watching the television. He is very washed out and covered in a thin film of sweat, but Dad does not look as bad as when I saw him earlier. Now his eyes are open wider, so I think his headache might have eased.

He hasn’t noticed me, so I move closer, and say, “Dad?”

He jumps, and then screws his face up for a few seconds, rubbing his forehead. Then he turns his head to the right and looks at me.

“Hi, Allura,” He says. He points to the envelope in my hand with very shaky finger. “What’s that?”

“It’s my exam results, Dad,” I say. “Do you want to read them?”

“Of course I do,” I hand him the envelope, and sit down on the edge of the sofa bed. I hear Papa come into the room and stand a few metres behind me.

But once Dad has taken the paper out, something seems to go wrong. He screws his eyes up and moves the paper towards and away from his face the way I do when I am trying to read without my glasses on.

“Are you alright, love?” Papa says, moving towards Dad and sitting down opposite me on the sofa bed.

Dad rubs his eyes with both of his hands. “I...don’t know,” he says.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why haven’t you read the results sheet?”

Dad takes a deep breath, and then exhales slowly. And then he smiles at Papa. “Nothing’s wrong – I just had another headache. I’m fine now. Look, I’ll prove it,” He holds up the results and tries to read them again.

But when Dad reads my results aloud, he is very slow, and falters, stammering and leaving massive gaps between words and even syllables. This isn’t normal for Dad, and I don’t think Papa believes him either, because he says, “Is there a problem with your eyes? I mean, has your vision gone blurry or anything like that, love?”

“No,” Dad says, very quickly. “I just have a headache and I can’t concentrate. Now can we please just leave it?”

Papa rubs the bridge of his nose. “But-”

But Dad shouts, “Leave it, Coran! Just shut up about this and leave me alone!” His very pale face flushes red, and his whole body trembles.

Papa also goes red and starts shaking, but he isn’t angry – he is upset. He doesn’t speak, but I hear him swallow hard, and his breathing starts getting very shaky.

Dad looks at Papa, his face crumples, and then he holds his hand out to him, saying, “Oh, God, Coran...I-I’m so sorry...please, I...”

But Papa pulls away from him, and stands up. Dad’s hand hangs in midair, and then flops down onto the duvet again. He clenches his hand into a fist.

Papa swallows again, and then says, “I’m calling the doctors.”

Dad sits upright so quickly he almost falls over sideways. “What?”

“You heard me,” Papa says. “You’re ill, Alfor. But you don’t see it. You’ve had headaches and nosebleeds for weeks, and these mood swings are getting more and more obvious. You never used to snap at me like this-”

“But- but you can’t,” Dad says. He turns to me. “Please, Allura, make your Papa see sense. I don’t need to see a doctor, do I?”

But before I can speak, Papa says, “Don’t you drag Allura into this. She’s worried about you as it is.”

“Let her speak for herself, Coran, she’s old enough.”

“But it’ll just stress her out.”

“When did you become the autism expert?”

“Shut up, Alfor,” Papa says, running his fingers through his hair. “Just shut up and look at yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re ill. You are so ill.” Papa is trembling, his cheeks flushing, and I think his eyes are full of tears as he cries, “You can’t keep ignoring your health, Alfor! I don’t want you to end up dead!”

Dad gasps. And then all I hear is their heavy breathing. I don’t know why, but Papa must have taken things too far. They both stare at each other, until Papa turns around and walks out of the room. I hear him rush up the stairs as quickly as he can manage, and slam his bedroom door. He always does this when he’s angry.

Dad just stares into space, and clenches and unclenches his fists.

I am actually scared to talk to him, in case he shouts at me too, but I decide to risk it. “Would you like me to read you my results to you?”

Dad’s voice is very quiet when he replies. “I’d love you to, Allura.”

And once I have read him all nine results, he smiles, and says, “You do know I love you, don’t you, Allura.”

“Yes, Dad,” I say. “And I love you too. Very much so.”

Dad’s face crumples, and I think he is going to cry. But then he takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes.

I decide to leave him to himself until he has calmed down, and I wander off into the kitchen. As I drink a glass of water, I wish that everything would go back to the way it was earlier, when I was in the car and was so happy. It’s hard to think that I was the same person then. Because, right now, I am far from happy.

 

13

I spend most of the afternoon sat at the kitchen table, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with my fingertip, and thinking. In particular, I think about the argument.

I hate it when Dad and Papa argue. They never really argue that much, so when they do it is even more of a shock. And when they do, they never usually do it in front of me or Lance – it tends to be something they do when they are alone in a room, although I can often still hear them.

But thinking about this makes me feel sad, so I decide to make lists in my head instead. I list all of the bones in the human body, and then all of the monarchs since 1066, but I get distracted.

Because, at 4:31pm, I hear Papa come back down the stairs. He doesn’t come back into the living room, but just goes straight out of the front door. Two minutes later, I hear the car start and drive away.

I go back into the living room, intending to ask Dad if he knows where Papa has gone. But I see that he is asleep, the duvet pulled right up under his chin. He looks so peaceful that I do not want to wake him up, so I pick up the TV remote and sit down in the armchair. I flick through all of the channels, and manage to find a documentary about marine biology. I like documentaries like this – they are always very interesting.

But even though I stare at the television screen, I don’t focus on what the narrator is saying, or what is going on. I can’t seem to focus on anything. My brain feels like it is full of cotton wool. After five minutes of attempting to watch the television, I get so fidgety that I switch the TV off again, and stand up. I am so jumpy that I begin to understand what it must be like to have ADHD like Lance. And I hate it – I want to curl up somewhere and think about things.

This goes on for so long that when the phone starts ringing, it comes as a relief. Which is a strange feeling for me to experience, because I hate having phone calls. I never know when it is my turn to speak. But now, I view it as something for me to do, my stimming is making me irritated, and it will be something to do.

The telephone wakes Dad up, and he raises his head off of the pillow. “What’s going on?” he says, his voice slurred.

“The telephone’s ringing, Dad,” I explain, as I walk past the sofa bed and towards the hallway. “But I’ll answer it.”

I hear him say, “Thanks-s, Allura,” and then I go out into the hallway.

I pick up the receiver and hold it up to my head. “Hello?”

“Oh, hi, Allura.” It’s Lance, and I can hear Plaxum speaking to him, but I can’t make out exactly what she is saying. “Where’s Papa?”

“He’s gone out. But I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“Why’s he gone out?”

I sigh, knowing that I shall have to explain all about the conflict earlier. “Papa and Dad had an argument. Papa went up to his room, and then he came down and left about fifteen minutes ago.”

Lance doesn’t speak to me for three minutes, but I can hear the murmur of him and Plaxum talking at his end of the line. I am about to put the phone down, when Lance suddenly speaks.

“So, there’s no chance of a lift then?”

“No,” I shake my head, even though I know he cannot see me. “Papa took the car. Why, where are you?”

“We’re in town still, but it’s chucking it down with rain. Listen.” I don’t know what he is doing, until I hear the roar of heavy rain. Then he says, “But its okay. I guess we’ll just have to walk.” Lance sighs. “See you soon, Allura.”

“Good bye, Lance.” I say, and I put the phone down. Then I go back into the living room.

Dad is sitting up again. “Who was it?”

“Lance.” I say.

“And what did he want?” Dad says.

“He wanted to know if Papa could give him and Plaxum a lift back from the town centre where it’s raining. But he can’t because Papa went out, and—”

“W-wait,” Dad interrupts me. “He went out. When?”

“At approximately 4:31pm. It was when you were asleep.” I pause and then add, “Where do you think he might have gone?”

Dad sighs. “I’ve got no idea... Hang on!”

“What,” I say, startled.

“Did he take his mobile phone with him?”

Dad and Papa both have mobile phones, but Lance and I don’t. They both insist that we are too young to need them, but Lance protests about it almost constantly. Dad says he can get one if he pays for it, but mobile phones are so expensive that Lance is yet to have enough money to buy one.

“Allura?”

“Sorry,” I say, realising that I have gone into deep thought. “I don’t know. I’ll check.”

I run out into the hallway and then up the stairs. There are only three places where Papa’s phone will be: on his bedside table; in the draw by the telephone; or in his jacket pocket. I check the bedroom first – no, it’s not in here. So I hurry back down the stairs, only to slip and fall backwards.

“Shit!” I hiss as I land, banging by elbows, back and shoulder into the steps.

“What the hell was that?” Dad calls.

I stand up, and feel myself for broken bones. When I find nothing but bruises, I shout back, “Nothing. I fell over, but I’m not hurt.” This is a lie, but I don’t want him to worry more than necessary.

I slow down and grip the banister when I carry on down the stairs. Once my feet are back on the ground floor, I rifle through the cluttered draw, but I can’t find his phone.

“Great – that means he has it on him,” Dad says, much perkier now. So he doesn’t have to get up, I hand him his own mobile phone, and he dials Papa’s number.

We both sit in silence as the phone rings, and rings, and rings. On the thirtieth ring, we hear the pre-recorded answer phone message.

Dad droops, and leans back against his pillow. “He’s got his phone switched off. He’s ignoring us, isn’t he?”

I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything. I just do what others do when they cannot think of what to say, and shrug my shoulders.

My brain starts whirring, and I can’t stop wondering where Papa has gone. Maybe he’s gone to see a friend. Maybe he has gone to the shops to buy something. Or maybe he has gone driving off in a rage, not seen another driver, and ended up part of a road traffic collision. Maybe he’s dying, maybe he’s already dead...

“Allura!” Dad shouts. “Stop screaming. Please. You’re okay. I’m here.”

I can hear him, but his voice is quiet. And then I realise why – I am screaming, repeatedly and so loud my ears are starting to hurt. I click my fingers and put my hands over my ears, and, after thirty nine seconds, I manage to stop screaming. But I am left shaking and with a raw throat.

“Sorry,” I gasp, holding my neck as though doing so can sooth my sore throat.

Dad holds his hand out to me. “Are you all right, Allura?”

“I...I think so,” I say. “I was just thinking about what might have happened to Papa and got scared.”

“Look, Allura. I know you won’t believe me, but I’m sure Papa’s fine,” Dad says. “I bet you he’s just gone for a drive and he’ll be back soon.”

“But what if something’s happened to-”

Dad cuts me off. “But what if something _hasn’t_ happened to him,” he says. “You’re meant to be my little mathematician. What actually is the probability that something bad has happened to Papa?”

I think hard about this. But I cannot think of the answer. Eventually, I give up.

“I can’t think of it,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Dad says. And then he smiles, “But you’re not worried any more, are you?”

Now I understand - he was trying to distract me. And it’s worked!

“No,” I say, “I’m not. How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Dad sounds confused.

But as I open my mouth to reply, I hear a key in the front door. And then a voice. But it’s not Papa – it’s Lance.

“Fucking hell!” Lance says, coming into the living room. “I’m freezing.”

He is totally soaked. He has his hood up over his head, and droplets of water run down his face like he is crying, and his clothes are sodden, dripping water all over the lino. And he is shivering, so he must be cold, even though it is the middle of the summer.

“You’re soaking!” Dad replies. “Now get out of those clothes before you soak the whole house.”

“Yes, sir,” Lance salutes him with his middle finger, and squelches out of the living room. But then he sticks his head back around the corner and says, “Where’s Papa? Is he still out?”

Dad looks down into his lap. “Yeah. But he’ll be back soon, won’t he, Allura?”

“Of course, Dad,” I say, pretending to agree.

“Now get dried off, mister,” Dad says to Lance, and Lance leaves the room, but not before he has pulled a stupid face at Dad. Dad pulls one back, but Lance has already gone.

And then he says, “So...what are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Is all I can think to say.

But we don’t have to worry about what to do, because the doorbell starts ringing. And, as far as both of us are concerned, there is only one person it can be.

 

14

I hurry out into the hallway and peer through the spy hole to see who is there. I have to squint hard through the distorted image to work out who it is, but then I realise. And I open the door wide.

Papa is stood on the doorstep. His hair is very wet, and his face is flushed red. He trembles, and, when I look down, I see the knuckles on his right hand are grazed and bleeding. But the main thing I notice is that he is holding a large red and white bucket with the Kentucky Fried Chicken logo on its side. KFC is both mine and Dad’s favourite food, so I presume that this is some form of peace offering.

“Hi, Allura,” He says, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“What have you done to your hand, Papa?” I say. “That must really hurt, and it needs to be cleaned to stop an infection developing.”

Papa doesn’t reply. Instead, he asks me another question. “Where’s your Dad?”

“I’m right here,” I hear Dad say. This startles me, and I turn around. He is stood in the doorway, one of his hands gripping the doorframe tightly. He sways slightly from side to side, although it is so subtle that I think only I notice it.

And then he says, “Where the bloody hell have you been, Coran?” But he doesn’t say it loudly or angrily. He just sounds sad.

Papa hands me the bucket, which I rest against my chest. It is very warm and smells delicious. Then he limps towards Dad, and says, “I’m so sorry, love.”

“You better be,” Dad mutters.

Papa continues as though he wasn’t interrupted, “I was just so angry that I wanted to be alone. I totally lost track of the time, and then it was so late that when I drove past the KFC in town I thought I might as well get it for tea.”

“You didn’t even phone us, Coran,” Dad says, his voice getting thicker as he speaks. “Allura thought you might have been in a car crash or something like that.” Then he sighs.

No one speaks for twenty seconds, but then Dad adds, “Look...I’m sorry for shouting at you. You were right and I was wrong. I do need to see a doctor - and I’m going to book an appointment first thing tomorrow morning.” But he doesn’t look at Papa’s face when he says it, and I think, although I may be mistaken, that his fingers are crossed.

Papa smiles at Dad, and he begins to say something. But then he gets interrupted.

“Hey, you’re back,” Lance says from the top of the stairs. He comes running down the staircase, now dressed in his blue pyjamas with his now dried and combed hair bouncing as he does so. He goes straight up to Papa and gives him a hug. Then he says, “Is that KFC?”

Papa nods, and then sniffs. “Yeah. Want some?”

“Yes please!” Lance grins.

I go to hand Lance the bucket, but Dad places his hand on Lance’s shoulder to make Lance turn and face him, and says, “Have you dyed your hair?”

Lance groans. “Yeah,” he mutters.

“Come on, Allura,” Papa says to me, and he walks into the kitchen. “This may take a while.”

“What on Earth made you dye your hair blond?” Dad says, his voice louder now.

I follow Papa into the kitchen. “What will?”

“Their ‘discussion’,” Papa says, using his fingers to make quotation marks in the air.

We decide to ignore Lance and Dad’s ‘discussion’ about why Lance has blond hair, because Lance definitely had it coming. Instead, we unpack all of the food, and lay the dining table with crockery, cutlery and drinks.

Everything is ready by the time they have stopped arguing, and Lance comes running into the dining room.

“He doesn’t mind!” Lance babbles, grinning. He picks up a chicken drumstick, and starts biting chunks out of it. As an afterthought, he takes a seat beside me.

Papa almost chokes on his Coca Cola. “What, after all that arguing?”

“Yeah,” Lance pauses to swallow his mouthful. “Dad said he was annoyed ‘cause I didn’t ask first, but...”

He trails off as Dad comes into the dining room. Lance looks at Dad’s face, but I pay attention to the way Dad is walking. He seems to have developed a limp, with his left leg dragging behind his right as he walks, and his walking is painfully slow, about the speed that Papa walks. I know he has a headache, but that wouldn’t make him walk so badly, would it?

He sits down next to Papa, and smiles. “Yeah, Lance’s right,” Dad says to Papa, “I’m annoyed because he didn’t ask first, but, to be honest, it suits him.”

Papa nods, “Yeah, I thought so too,”

I have to wonder if everyone has gone insane, “Why do you two like his hair – it really doesn’t suit him.”

Lance laughs, “Thanks, Allura.”

“Thanks for getting us KFC, Coran,” Dad says, changing the subject. I hate it when people do that.

Papa shrugs. “I know it’s your favourite,”

Dad smiles, and then he leans forwards and kisses Papa on the lips.

“Get a room!” Lance says, smiling.

I turn away, grimacing. I hate most forms of affection and intimacy, and so I don’t like seeing other people do it. It makes me feel slightly nauseous, and then sad when I realise how different I am.

The rest of our meal passes as our family meals normally do. We chat about our plans, what’s on the television and our achievements. So, my GCSE results and I are the main talking points.

At one point, Papa asks, “What A levels do you want to take, Allura?”

I have been thinking about this for months, so I don’t even stop to think before announcing, “Biology, Chemistry, Maths and History.”

“Why history?” Papa looks confused.

And Dad says, “I thought you really struggled with the GCSE.”

“I did,” I say, “But Dr David said it would look better when I apply to university if I have more subject variety.” Besides, I do enjoy history, so I might as well study it.

Then Dad and Papa talk to Lance about his afternoon out with Plaxum, and I zone out of the conversation. I only start listening again when I hear Papa say my name.

“Yes, Papa?”

Papa looks at Dad before saying, “Your dad and I were wondering if you’d like to go out somewhere tomorrow. You know, as a reward for doing so well in your exams?”

And Dad adds, “We can go anywhere. Well, within r-reason.”

I think hard about it for at least three minutes. And then I think of something I have always wanted to do.

“Can we go to London and visit the science museum?” I ask. And, to encourage them to say yes, I add, “It’s free to get in, so we would only have to pay for travel expenses.”

Dad nods, “Yeah, I think that’d be a great day out. Good thinking, Allura.”

Papa seems to be thinking more practically, “Do they have good disabled access, because in such a big building I think I’ll need my wheelchair?”

To my surprise, it is Lance who answers Papa’s question. “Sure they do.” He says. “Remember when I went with school last year? Well, my mate Richie was on crutches, and there were lifts and ramps everywhere.”

Dad and Papa agree that we can go, so that’s it. We are going to the science museum tomorrow. I have never been to London before. And although I’m nervous about the business and the noise and the people, I am still very excited.

And I stay excited for the rest of the evening. Again, I find myself unable to focus on the television and what the others are saying and my book about the assassination of John F Kennedy and all of the conspiracy theories, but this does not bother me. I just keep thinking of our family day out we have planned for tomorrow. Which reminds me of something important.

“How are we going to get there?” I ask.

Dad and Papa are both absorbed in the episode of Coronation Street on the TV, and neither seem to be listening to me. And Lance is in the hallway having a whispered phone conversation with Plaxum so we can’t hear what he is talking about, so I have to wait for one of my parents to respond.

“Get where, love?” Papa says, and Dad doesn’t even bother to reply.

“To the science museum. I mean, are we going to drive, or take the train, or take the bus?”

Papa nudges Dad, and repeats an abridged version of my question to him. But he just says, “Don’t worry about it, Allura. Me and Papa will think about it tomorrow morning.”

The way they have just dismissed my question annoys me, so I go upstairs and into my room and get ready for bed.

Once I have brushed my teeth and changed into my pyjamas, I get into bed and read some more of my JFK conspiracy book. It really is fascinating to think that the US government never found out who murdered their president in broad daylight with loads and loads of possible witnesses around. But I do know one thing for certain – Lee Harvey Oswald was not the assassin.

I know this from my obsessive study of the Zapruder film, which is the only footage (and even that has been doctored and had frames removed) that shows Kennedy getting shot. And when the headshot is fired and Kennedy’s head explodes, his head jerks backwards very sharply. But Oswald, who the government said fired that shot, was a. Behind Kennedy and his car, and b. On the fifth floor of the Texas School Book Depository. Which means that if he had shot Kennedy in the head, it would have made Kennedy’s head move forwards. So the murderer had to be somewhere near Zapruder – who was filming it – on or behind the infamous Grassy Knoll. Which means Oswald didn’t kill JFK.

This is one of the reasons why I struggle so much with studying history. Because there are very few things that all historians agree on and are considered fact. Using the JFK assassination as my example, there are lots of historians who have studied this case, and none can agree on what really happened. Some say that Oswald did it, others say the ‘man behind the Grassy Knoll’, and some even think that the driver of Kennedy’s car did it.

It all gets very confusing.

After a while, I get tired, and I fall asleep sitting up in bed with my lamp still on. I wake up at 3:08am with a sharp pain in my neck, and _pins and needles_ in both of my hands. And I am desperate to use the toilet.

I get out of bed and head down the landing towards the bathroom. But as I reach the door, I can see a strip of light coming out through the gap under the door, and some strange noises. At first, I think someone is coughing, but then I realise that they are actually vomiting. The door is not locked, so I open it as slowly as possible so the door doesn’t creak and give me away. I stand in the doorway and poke my head into the bathroom.

Dad is kneeling in front of the toilet. I can only see his back, but I watch his shoulders heave as he vomits again and again. Both of the taps are running as if Dad has tried to stop anyone hearing this, but he is still very loud as he retches and vomits repeatedly.

I don’t want him to see me, so I close the door again. As the bathroom is engaged and I am still desperate to use the toilet, I rush downstairs and use the toilet on the ground floor. I only just make it in time.

On my way back to my bedroom, I see that Dad is still in the bathroom, and instead of going back to bed, I go into his and Papa’s bedroom instead. I have hidden his extra nosebleed from Papa, but I will not hide this too.

I go right up to Papa’s side of the bed, and whisper his name, “Papa,” But he is a deep sleeper, so after this does not wake him up, I force myself to tap him on the shoulder.

“Wh-what’s going on,” Papa wakes up, and seems to be disoriented. Then he sees me, and puts his glasses on. “What’s wrong, Allura.”

I take a deep breath, and say, “Dad is vomiting in the bathroom.”

Papa sits up in bed so quickly he seems to make himself dizzy, and rubs his head in the same way I do when this happens to me[12].

Then he says, “Bloody hell. Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

Papa gets out of bed and grabs his walking stick from where it is leaning against his bedside table. He limps across the landing in the direction of the bathroom.

But before he goes in, I say, “Please don’t tell Dad I told you.”

Papa must see how worried I feel, because he doesn’t question why I said that. So I hurry off down the landing and enter my bedroom. I have shut and locked the door before I hear Papa enter the bathroom. But then I hear Dad say something back, and I start to worry that I have caused another argument.

So I get back into bed and read about how the Cuban Missile Crisis might have been linked to JFK’s death and put my hands over my ears and pretend that I never got involved.

 

* * *

Footnotes

[1] The medical term for a black eye is a **periorbital haematoma** , but Dad and Papa always tell me to use words that people will understand, so I wrote black eye instead. But I’ve put the medical name here as a footnote in case anyone is interested.

[2] It is called the ulnar nerve.

[3] X-rays are called X-rays because when they were discovered in 1895 by Wilhelm Roentgen, and he named them as such because X means unknown, and he didn’t know what caused them.

[4] If the bathroom is engaged go and use the toilet in the utility room downstairs.

[5] Posterior means that the bleeding came from the back of his nose, as opposed to anterior – at the front.

[6] Milk is too bland, and I hate its taste.

[7] I dislike the texture of butter – it is too greasy, like eating Lance’s hair gel. Which I did, just to see what it tasted like – but it was disgusting and Papa had to take me to accident and emergency where they made me drink a load of black charcoal to make myself sick.

[8] NEVER listen to anyone who tells you to tip your head backwards. It will make the blood run down your throat and make you vomit, or go into your lungs and make you choke. Either way, it is a very outdated and generally bad idea.

[9] This is short for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It is a developmental disability, like autism.

[10] This is called the myelin sheath, and is there to protect the nerve.

[11] Like when I ran out into the road when I was scared and nearly got hit by a car.

[12] This is called **postural hypotension** and is when you stand or sit up too quickly and get a sudden drop in blood pressure. It makes you very dizzy and sometimes makes your vision go black for a few seconds. It has probably happened to most people at least once.


	2. 22/08/01

Wednesday 22nd August 2001

1

It is not until 9:01am, when we are all in the car on our way to the train station, that Dad and Papa mentions what happened in the middle of last night.

“I feel sick,” Lance moans. I think that this is because he hasn’t eaten yet this morning, because skipping meals makes me feel nauseated. He often skips meals, forgetting that he is hungry.

Papa, who is sat in the passenger seat, looks straight at Dad, who does his best to avoid looking back at Papa.

“Well, if you think you’re going to throw up don’t try and hide it from us, because we’ll find out when you start retching really loudly,” Papa says.

Lance looks at me, looking totally confused.                                                                               

“I’ll tell you later,” I mouth.

I can see Dad frowning when I see his reflection in the rear view mirror. I hope that he will not argue with Papa’s comment. But he does.

“Will you leave it?” He says, his teeth gritted. “I didn’t want to wake you up unnecessarily. I was being considerate, not some sort of bitch who’s conspiring against you!”

Papa lets out a long, slow breath, and leans back into the headrest. “Fine, I’ll leave it.”

And then we are plunged into an awkward silence. I try to relax and close my eyes, but Lance keeps whispering my name. After three minutes, this annoys me enough that I get my notebook out of my rucksack and write down what he wants to hear.

**They are arguing because I saw Dad throwing up last night and told Papa. (Dad doesn’t know I told so don’t say anything.) Then Papa went and burst in on Dad in the bathroom and I heard them start to argue.**

Lance reads through my message, and then takes my pen out of my hand and writes back:

**Why was he sick?**

I do not know why, but I still respond.

**I don’t know, but I thought I should tell Papa because he is worried about all these things that keep happening to Dad – I mean the nosebleeds and the headaches – and the vomiting might be related to them.**

Lance takes five minutes to write his response. So I expect it to be really long, but I am surprised to see that all he has written is:

**I’m worried about him.**

I cannot think of a response to that, so I just put my notebook and pen back inside my bag.

We arrive at the railway station at 9:15am. The train to London Liverpool Street is going to leave at 9:27am, so we have plenty of time to waste before the train leaves. Dad gets out of the driver’s seat and uses the lift in the boot to get Papa’s electric wheelchair out of the car. Papa limps around the side of the car and straps himself into the chair.

Lance and I follow, both of us putting our rucksacks onto our backs. All four of us have our own bag, which contains our own packed lunch and various random things. This is because Papa who made our packed lunches, didn’t want to have all four of them weighing down is wheelchair. Or, as he once put it: “I’m not a sodding pack horse!”

As Dad and Papa buy our tickets and Lance goes to the toilet, I look at the map on the wall that shows each rail link and the stations that each one stops at. An awful lot of trains go into one station – it’s going to be busy, and I hope this doesn’t make me panic.

I hear Dad call my name, and grab a small map before going over to him. I follow Dad, Papa and Lance out onto the platform, and my eyes widen.

There are so many people. Commuters and families cover the platform, and the other platform on the opposite side of the tracks. If they are all getting on our train, we will never get to sit down. And I don’t want to sit on the filthy floor. The novelty of this day trip is rapidly wearing off.

A 9:24am train arrives at the platform, and about a third of all the people get onto it. But the platform is still too crowded for my liking.

“Will we get a seat, Dad?” I ask Dad, who is looking at the screen with all of the train times on it.

He shrugs, “I don’t know. It all depends on how crowded the train is when it arrives.”

I lean against the brick wall, running my fingertips along the rough surface, and stare at my watch. I count down until it is exactly 9:27am, and then I look up, expecting the train to rumble into the station. But it isn’t here.

“Where’s the train?” I say to Papa. He looks up from reading the guide book about wheelchair accessibility in London.

“What, love?”

“Where’s the train?” I say again. “It’s 9:29am.”

“Trains are always late, love.” Papa says.

“Yeah,” Dad adds, turning around. “I can tell you from personal experience that trains to London are always late.”

I don’t like this. I like it when everything is at the time it is supposed to be. “So when will it arrive?”

They both tell me that they do not know.

In the end, the train arrives at 9:39am. We have to go right down the platform to the very back of the train, which, I soon realise is because that is the carriage with a wheelchair access ramp, and a man gets the ramp out. Papa thanks him, and steers his wheelchair up the ramp and onto the train.

Dad, Lance and I follow, and I see that Papa has moved his wheelchair into the designated wheelchair space. And I look around to find a space for me. But there are three of us, and only one seat left.

But the seat is the middle one on a row of three, and the woman on the left of it is carrying a huge bag, and the man on the right is overweight, so there is not actually much room. And anyway, I don’t want to sit in between two random strangers.

“Either of you can sit down,” I say to Dad and Lance. As they both decide who can get the seat, I go over to Papa, and, with permission, hang my rucksack on one of the handles on the back of his chair.

After standing around for three minutes, the doors close. There is a loud rumbling sound, and then the whole train jolts. I lose my balance, and stumble down the carriage and slam into the door to the next carriage.

“Shit! Allura, are you okay?” Dad gets out of the seat, and hurries towards me. By now, the train has started moving, and, although I decide to grip a pole, I still sway unsteadily on my feet. Dad looks rather wobbly too.

“I’m fine,” I lie, clinging onto the pole. I hate this – I feel like I am going to fall over if I let go.

A stand there for a few more minutes, my eyes screwed up. I don’t think I can last the whole journey like this. But then, thankfully, I hear a stranger speak.

“Um...Would you like my seat, love,” I open my eyes and see a middle aged woman speaking me.

“Yes please,” I say, nodding in case she doesn’t understand me. I stagger across the rocking carriage and collapse into a seat that happens to be next to Papa’s wheelchair.

“Thanks,” Dad says, returning to his own seat. The woman smiles at him.

In this seat, I am sat facing a large window, but looking out at all of the buildings and trees and clouds and people and fields makes my head hurt and feel sick. So I get my bag and take out my notebook. To pass the time, I write a list of all the bones in the human arm, but I get stuck when I try to write the long list of the bones in the wrist.

Sighing, I put my notebook back in my bag and take out a ball of blue tak. I pull it out into a long strand and then try to tie it in knots. I like the texture of blue tak, and doing this is very relaxing and calming.

I look up every time the train stops, but after only two, the voiceover announces that we have arrived at London Liverpool Street. We wait until everyone else has left the carriage, and, once Papa has been helped off of the train via the ramp, I step out into the station.

It is a massive, Victorian building, with a high ceiling and lots of train tracks. But I don’t focus on that. All I can think about is how many people there are. Someone bumps into me and I scream.

Something tells me that this is going to be awful.

 

2

I cannot walk in a straight line and face forwards as we make our way through the train station. There is too much going on around me for me to focus on one thing alone.

Hundreds and even thousands of people are rushing around, talking, shouting, dragging wheeled suitcases behind them, reading maps, and staring at the screen with train times written on it that is suspended from the ceiling.

There are signs and adverts and shops everywhere, bold colours hurting my eyes and making my brain whirr as I read every signal one of them. But the worst is the noise: the shouting, screaming, booming voiceovers, roaring trains and the clatter of all those pairs of shoes hitting the tiled floor.

I can’t deal with this. So I follow just behind Papa’s wheelchair so people will part to let Papa through and then leave me enough space to get through without them walking into me, with my hands over my ears to block out as much noise as I can. I tap my fingers into the side of my head, and stare at the floor to avoid looking at the things that will give me a sensory overload, and manage to relax a little.

Once we reach the London Underground Station, I stand with Papa and Lance whilst Dad queues up to buy our tickets. As this part of the station is much smaller, it appears to be even more crowded, although I know this is only an illusion.

After spending seven minutes in the queue, Dad comes back over. He hands me my ticket, which I slip into my shirt breast pocket. Then he leads us through the station and to the lift. He presses the button, and we wait for the lift to arrive.

I hate lifts, and I really do not want to get in. I put my hands back over my ears and follow the other three inside. It isn’t that cramped, and I begin to let my guard down.

But then I hear a woman’s voice, and, turning around, I see a woman, a buggy and a toddler coming into the lift with us. Once they are cramped inside too, there is barely enough space. The doors close, and I start to panic.

“I want to get out,” I say to no one in particular.

Dad’s hand pauses just in front of the ‘1’ button. “We can’t, Allura, not now,” He presses the button. “Don’t worry – we’ll only be in here for a few seconds.”

I do not reply, and count. One second, two seconds, three seconds –

And then there is a loud BANG and the lift jolts to a sudden stop.

The baby starts crying. The toddler whimpers. Papa jumps. Lance stumbles into Dad. But I say nothing because I am happy. We must be at the bottom now.

I wait for the doors to open, but they don’t.

“Damn it!” Dad groans, and he hits the alarm button with his finger.

“What’s going on?” I say, starting to worry again. “Why did you press the alarm button?”

“The lift’s stuck, love,” Papa says to me. My heart rate increases, and I feel sick.

“When w-will we get out?” I ask. I hate this so much. This is why I shouldn’t have gone in this stupid lift. To stop myself screaming, I get my blue tak out of my bag and break it up into smaller pieces. I hope this can keep me calm until we get out.

The baby is still crying. Its mother sighs, and says to Dad, “Typical isn’t it? We’re in a rush, and we get stuck in a lift.”

“Yeah,” Dad laughs, but he doesn’t look happy. “But this is London, so what do you expect?”

The woman laughs too, but I don’t understand why. What Dad said wasn’t a joke.

I check my watch. We have been stuck in this lift for five minutes now. The baby’s crying has started to hurt my ears, so I put my hands over my ears and stuff the blue tak into my pocket. Then I turn around and rest my forehead against the metal wall. It is very cold and smooth and helps sooth my headache.

I count, I work out mathematical formulas, I make lists – anything to pass the time. This works, because it seems to be only seconds later when I feel the sensation of the lift moving again, but it is actually almost forty minutes since the lift jammed.

When we reach the bottom and the doors open, I barge past everyone else and rush out of the lift, taking deep breaths of much fresher air. I only stop running when I hear Papa and Dad shouting my name, and I stop and turn around. I walk back towards them.

Once I reach them, Dad says, “Well done for staying calm, Allura,” He smiles at me.

“You did great,” Papa adds.

I don’t agree, but follow after them nevertheless.

We wind our way through tunnels and through crowds, but eventually end up stood on an Underground platform, waiting for the train. It is not as busy as I had expected, so I manage to get a seat on a bench beside a teenage girl who cannot me much younger than me who is holding a plastic box with a handle on top. The girl has a purple hearing aid in her right ear, and a purple and white watch on her left wrist. She is white and has long, light brown hair, pulled back into a plait. And then I notice the bruising around her neck, and I wonder what must have happened.

The box whimpers, and then I realise that it is a pet carrier. Although talking to people makes me nervous, I am intrigued, so I say to the girl, “What animal is in your box?”

She turns her head towards me, and I think she might be blushing slightly. She is very pretty. “My cat. I’m taking him with me to see my gran in Hammersmith.” She turns the carry case around so I can see through the mesh. The cat is all black, with green eyes and meows at me.

“What’s a gran?” I ask.

She giggles, but then sees my face and realises that I am not making a joke. “It’s short for ‘grandmother’.”

And then she says, “Are you autistic, by any chance?”

I flinch. I did not expect her to notice my autism, because most people don’t speak to me for long enough to notice it, and others just think I am weird and walk away. But I soon find that this girl is different.

“Yes,” I say. “Why do you ask?”

I glance at the girl again. She is grinning now. “Because I’m autistic too.”

“Really?” I say. I have never met another autistic person before.

She says something else, but I freeze and zone out when I hear a rumbling sound. It is very loud, and hurts my ears so much I have to stick my fingers in them. Then the floor shakes, and the rumble becomes a roar. My body begins to rock backwards and forwards, and I have to clamp my lips together to stop myself screaming.

But then, just as suddenly as it started, the noise stops. I look up, seeing a train has arrived, I take my fingers out of my ears, and let my tensed up muscles relax.

“Well,” the girl says, and I realise that she was covering her ears too. “This is my train. Bye.”

“Bye.” She stands up, and follows who I presume is her mother onto the train.

I glance at Dad, Papa and Lance, and, seeing that they are not moving, I realise that this is not our train. So I stay sitting on the bench, and am prepared for the noise when the train leaves the platform, covering my ears again.

Now there is space, Lance and Dad sit down on the bench beside me, and Dad says, “You’re very brave, Allura, talking to someone you don’t even know.”

“I wanted to know what was in the box,” I say. I had no idea that Dad was listening to our conversation. “Did you hear? She’s autistic too!”

Dad smiles. “I know.”

After waiting for eight more minutes, our train arrives, and, again, we have to wait for someone to get the wheelchair ramp out. Papa gets into the wheelchair space, and, to my relief, there are enough seats for Lance, Dad and I to sit down. The seats are very small, so I have to cross my arms to avoid them touching either Dad or Lance, who I am sat between.

The Underground moves much more smoothly than the train, and, as long as I don’t look at the adverts just above my eye line, nothing makes me feel ill. Every time the train stops, more people get off, so, by the time we reach our stop, South Kensington, we are the only people left in our carriage.

It is wonderfully quiet with just my parents and Lance for company, but this doesn’t last. All too soon, the ramp is released and all four of us have to depart the train. I step back out onto a crowded platform, and I have to wonder just how many people this city can hold.

We follow the exit signs, and end up at the lifts. But this time I refuse to get in, and run up the stairs as fast as I can. I reach the top floor before the lift does, and am waiting for the others when the lift doors open. I’m out of breath, but I prefer that to panicking in a claustrophobic lift.

Once we have walked through a long, cold subway that is covered in graffiti and smells of urine, we emerge on the pavement beside a busy road. The air is thick with fumes, and the roar of car engines is incredibly loud.

I know it isn’t true, but the longer I spend in London, the more I begin to think that the whole city is conspiring against me.

 

3

We spend four hours and thirty five minutes in the science museum before we make the decision to leave.

By this point, we have visited each floor three times, and Lance is threatening to kill someone if he has to go up to the third floor again. Papa is exhausted, his head flopping back against the headrest of his wheelchair. My feet are aching, and Dad has another headache, judging by the way he keeps rubbing his forehead.

On our way out of the museum, we stop in the gift shop. I buy a hardback book about astronomy, and Lance chooses a plastic bouncy ball that lights up when it hits the floor. After only five minutes of him bouncing the ball, it hurts my head to look at it.

But I manage to keep myself calm by reading my new book, even as I walk back down the subway and into the underground station. It is fascinating. Of course, I have read a lot about astronomy, but this book has incredibly detailed photographs of the planets unlike any others I have seen. I stroke the glossy pages with my clammy fingers as I follow Dad onto the train, not having noticed the roar of the train arriving.

And there are facts in this book that even I did not know, particularly those about the sun and how nuclear fusion works. I’m excited to learn something new, and babble all these facts at Dad. I don’t even check if he is listening or not, but I don’t really care. This is what Dr David means when he says I talk at people, rather than to them.

“Can you get your kid to shut up about the fucking sun, mate” A man who is sat opposite Dad and I says.

This must annoy Dad, because he says, “She’s not doing anything wrong, mate,” But he says ‘mate’ with his teeth gritted.

“Leave it, Al,” Papa says under his breath.

Lance, who is hanging onto a rail above his head, notices what is going on, and he says to the man, “My sister’s autistic, she can’t help it.”

I only half-listen to them, and keep telling Dad the information, although a bit quieter. I do appreciate what Lance has said, but it won’t work. If people think I am crazy, then a diagnosis of a condition they don’t understand won’t make any difference.

The man sighs. He is quiet for a few seconds, and then says, “Hang on – are you two holding hands?”

I stop reading and look up. His finger is pointing at Papa and Dad, who are, indeed, holding hands. This cannot be happening again.

It is.

The man makes a noise that makes him sound like he is about to be sick. “People like you make me sick,” He says it very calmly, like he is having a normal conversation with my parents. But even I can tell that this is much more malicious.

Dad’s grip on Papa’s hand tightens; Papa squeals and wrenches his hand free.

I expect Dad or Papa to argue back, but Papa stares into his lap, clenching and unclenching his fists and Dad’s jaw is twitching, like he is very close to beating up this man. I wouldn’t stop him. But, to my surprise, neither of them respond – it is Lance who argues back.

“People like you make me sick too,” Lance says, his voice shaking.

The man sits up straighter. “You what?” He snaps.

“I said people like you make me sick.” Lance repeats. Now his shoulders are shaking, as well as his voice. “You say horrible things to people who don’t do anything wrong. And these people -” He points to Dad and Papa with his free hand. “- are my parents. They love and care for me and my sister. Yes, they’re gay, but so what. Why does that matter to you so much?” His voice cracks, and he doesn’t say any more.

And then someone starts clapping. Others join in. I hear someone say, “Good on you, kid.” And then the whole carriage is full of cheering and applause and praise and Lance is smiling, although he is still trembling. And Dad gets up and gives Lance a hug.

The man sits very still, looking up and down the carriage. He says nothing, but gets to his feet, picks up his bag and stands by the doors. As soon as they open at the next stop, he races out onto the platform and up the escalator before anyone else is even out of their seat.

This makes me feel happy. We never seem to win any of these confrontations – the person harassing Dad and Papa always gets the last word, and, in three cases, has injured one or both of them physically. But this time, we won! And it was all because of Lance.

Dad and Papa make a fuss of him as we wait for our train at Liverpool Street Station, hugging him and promising to buy him presents and saying he should tell Plaxum about it. I don’t mind – I know that I take up a lot of Dad and Papa’s time and that Lance often gets left out or ignored.

In fact, everyone seems closer after the confrontation with the homophobe. Particularly Dad and Papa, who are hugging and chatting and laughing just like they did before Dad started getting his headaches and Papa started worrying about him and they both started arguing all the time about Dad refusing to go to the doctors. Things feel like they did months ago, when our family life was much calmer, and I like it like this.

At 5:42pm, we arrive back at the station. Papa has fallen asleep, and requires a prod in the ribs to wake up again. He cannot stop yawning as we make our way back to the car, and once he is back in his seat, Papa leans his head against the window and falls asleep again.

Once Dad gets the wheelchair in the boot and joins us in the car, he looks at Papa and tuts, shaking his head.

“Honestly,” He turns around in his seat and speaks to Lance and I. “Our two children manage to stay awake, but he falls asleep.” But I know he isn’t being mean to Papa.

I relax and lean into the headrest, hugging my new book to my chest. I close my eyes – but five minutes into the drive home, both Papa and I are pulled back into reality.

“Dad!” Lance is shouting, again and again. His voice is shaking, and his legs are jiggling up and down as they normally do, but much faster.

Lance leans forwards, and hits Dad hard on the shoulder. “Dad, what’re you doing?”

I don’t know what is going on, so I lean forwards too and see what Lance is shouting about.

Our car is on the wrong side of the road. And a car is approaching. And Dad doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it. And it looks like we are going to be in a road traffic collision. And we might die.

 

4

Papa wakes up, and starts screaming at Dad.

“Alfor! Why are we on the wrong side of the road? What’s wrong, Al! Al!”

But Dad doesn’t respond. His head is swaying from side to side, and his grip on the steering wheel has relaxed.

“What the bloody hell!” He pauses for a few seconds, and then grabs the steering wheel, swinging our car back into the correct lane just as the other car passes us. The driver honks their horn, and sticks their fingers up at us.

Dad doesn’t speak, but he pulls over, puts the hazard lights on, and stops the car. Then he takes his hand off of the steering wheel, and rests his head in his shaky hands.

“Alfor?” Papa reaches out and rests a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Lance looks at me, but I do not know either. My best guess is that Dad went dizzy – but I don’t know for certain, and, even if he did, Dad won’t tell us.

Papa must think the same, because he then says, “Did you feel dizzy, love?”

Dad takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “N-n-no,” His voice is more slurred than I have ever heard it, and he speaks very slowly.

I expect Papa to start interrogating Dad, but he doesn’t. He just looks at Dad, and then takes his hand in his own. Papa murmurs phrases at Dad, things like ‘It’s all right’ and ‘There there’ – all the things that one is supposed to say to an upset person.

And this causes an unexpected response in Dad – he starts crying.

Dad never cries. Well, neither of my parents cry a lot. Papa cries when something upsets him enough, but he almost always does it in private, even though I usually still hear him.

I cry when I am having a sensory overload and am so scared I start screaming, because my emotions end up very erratic.

And even Lance has cried in front of me - when we spent the night at accident and emergency after Papa got beaten up by a random stranger, Lance couldn’t stop sobbing.

But to see Dad break down in front of me is not just unexpected – it is disturbing. He covers his face and closes his mouth, but I can still hear him whimpering, and his shoulders shake with every sob.

I rub my aching forehead, and glance at Lance out of the corner of my eye. His forehead is creased, his lips are pressed together so tightly that they are turning white, and he blinks much more rapidly than usual. I say nothing, but I hold out my hand to him. Lance takes my hand in his, and squeezes it hard.

My feeling of calmness and normality has disappeared as quickly as it arrived. I’m worried, scared, and want to go home and for everything to go back to normal.

But we are still sat in the car on the edge of a main road with cars honking their horns at us as they drive past, and Dad is still crying, and if Lance holds onto my hand for much longer I think I will lose the circulation to my fingers.

And the worst part of all this is that Dad still won’t admit that he has a problem.

 

5

After a lot of persuasion, begging and blackmail, Dad swaps seats with Papa and lets him drive us home. Papa is exhausted and shaking, but he is much safer in the driving seat than Dad, who is still swaying from side to side as though he is dizzy.

I can see Dad’s reflection in the rear view mirror. His face looks sore and swollen, and his eyes are unfocused. After a few minutes, he closes them, but I don’t think he is asleep.

As we reach the roundabout that will take us onto our estate, Papa does something different. Instead of turning right, we go left. I see the hospital symbol on a road sign, and realise what he is doing. But it won’t work. Dad won’t get out of the car. Either that, or he’ll kill Papa. And that isn’t hyperbole.

Sure enough, when Papa pulls the car into a disabled space outside the hospital’s accident and emergency unit, Dad opens his eyes, and says, “Why are we at the hospital, Coran?”

Something about his horribly cold, formal tone makes me shiver. I stim frantically, jiggling my legs up and down and clicking my fingers, trying my best to fight back tears.

“You need to see a doctor, love,” Papa says. “And it’ll take weeks to get you an appointment at the doctors, so I thought we could come here.” He leans backwards in his seat, as though expecting a punch.

Dad looks out of the window, and then turns back to Papa, “But it’s not an accident, nor an emergency.”

“Alfor, love,” Papa says, “You almost crashed the car – that was an accident waiting to happen.”

Dad shakes his head, “I don’t want to listen to this. There is nothing wrong with me, Coran. Just leave me alone.”

And, with that, Dad opens the door and gets out of the car. But he only takes three steps before his left leg gives way beneath him. Dad falls to the concrete with a thump, but gets up almost immediately, and limps back into the car. He hugs his arm to his chest, a pained expression on his face.

“Let’s go home,” He says, as though nothing has happened.

“But - ”

“NOW!” Dad’s face flushes red, and his voice is so loud I have to cover my ears.

Papa turns back around in his seat so he faces the wheel, and, although he clearly doesn’t want to, turns the key in the ignition and drives us home, for real this time.

As soon as Papa has parked the car, Dad storms up to the front door and lets himself in with his own house key, his limp a lot more obvious now.

Papa stays in the driver’s seat. No one says anything for a minute, and then Papa says, “What do I have to do to make him see sense? What did I do wrong?”

Neither Lance nor I know what to say. Papa turns around so he is facing us both. Tears are running down his cheeks, making his moustache wet.

“He just makes me so angry,” Papa sighs. “Angry that I can’t stop all this crap happening to him.”

Eventually, Lance says, “It’s not you, Papa. It’s Dad. Please don’t blame yourself.”

Papa gives him a watery smile. And then we all follow after Dad and enter the house. Dad must have gone upstairs, because the living room is empty. The house seems so dark and empty, and it creeps me out.

Papa collapses onto the sofa, Lance switches on the TV, and I stand in the corner, wondering how it is possible for my celebratory day trip to have been ruined so quickly.


	3. 29/08/01

Wednesday 29th August 2001

1

The rest of my summer holiday passes relatively uneventfully, although there are a few highlights. Dad stays off of work for seventy five percent of the days he should go to work. Lance spends most of his time out of the house visiting friends. I tag along with Dad to Church one Sunday and remember why don’t like going to Church. I spend two useless hours a week with Dr David. And Papa takes me up to the sixth form on enrolment day.

In the car on the way to the sixth form, I am very nervous, but excited. I really want to start sixth form – it will be a new start. I will meet new, more mature people, who, I hope will have more to worry about than tormenting me. And I won’t have to study the creative arts or PE any more.

But, as we pull into a disabled space in the sixth form’s car park, I cannot stop my heart palpitating and the unpleasant nausea in my stomach. I take deep breaths and count, which eases my symptoms, but does nothing for their cause, my anxiety.

“You’ll be fine, love,” Papa says as we make the slow walk through the car park and into the building.

And I am fine. I have to go up to a desk and show a woman my results list I got last week. She has blonde hair tied in a ponytail, and has three gold rings on her ring finger on her left hand.

Papa told me a few years ago that the three rings married couples wear are: the engagement ring, the wedding ring, and the eternity ring. He and Dad both have engagement rings, because Dad, when he proposed to Papa on 12th February 1995, promised that, as soon as gay marriage is legalised, they will get married. Although they may be waiting a while for this to happen.

“You’ve got very good grades, haven’t you, young lady?” The woman says. She is speaking to me like I am a toddler, and this annoys me.

I ignore her. No one speaks for forty seconds, and then she says, “Can you fill in this?”

She shoves a sheet towards me, which I take. I have to tick the boxes beside the A levels I am going to study. It doesn’t take me long to select the four I want to study: History, Biology, Chemistry and Mathematics.

I hand her back the paper and walk off, Papa hurrying to keep up with me. I hear him gasping for breath, and slow down so he can catch up.

“She was a bit patronising, wasn’t she?” Papa says. I nod. I love that Papa understands exactly what annoyed me about that woman.

We take the lift upstairs – this time it doesn’t get stuck – where I need to have my photograph taken. At this sixth form, all of the students have to wear a key card so they can get into the building, and these have your photo on the front of them.

I struggle with having my photo taken because I find it difficult to keep my eyes focused on one thing for any length of time, and the flash always hurts my eyes. Sure enough, when I have to sit on the chair and be photographed, the flash dazzles me. I blink rapidly and rub my eyes, but a large black circle obscures my vision, and my head throbs.

“Are you alright, love?” Papa says as I stumble towards him, feeling like I understand the pains of being partially sighted.

The horrible black shape looms in front of me as we leave the sixth form and get back in the car, only fading when we are five minutes from home. I sit in the back and rub my aching eyes, only opening them when I hear Papa speak.

“Allura, love,” He says. I open my eyes, and see him pointing at the window. “Look – it’s Lance.”

It is indeed. Lance and Plaxum are stood at the bus stop, shouting expletives at each other. They are both red faced and are flinging their hands about in the air as they speak. Papa pulls the car over in the bus lane.

“Do you two want a lift?” He asks, oblivious to the fact that his son and his girlfriend are arguing.

Lance takes a deep breath, and says, “No thanks. We’ll get the bus.”

“Why should we have to do what you want to?” Plaxum shouts, her voice wavering. “I want a lift.”

“Fine then!” Lance retaliates, his voice just as loud. “I’m still getting the bus.”

“Don’t be silly, Lance,” Papa says as Plaxum gets into the back seat beside me. “Get in the car and I’ll drive you home.”

After five minutes and thirty eight seconds more arguing, Lance flings open the car door so hard it bumps into the wing mirror, and sits in the passenger seat. He then slams the door with equal force, and the whole car shakes. Papa inhales sharply, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks for the lift, Coran,” Plaxum says.

It surprises me how Plaxum, who when I have previously met her has always been very polite, has the capability to scream swearwords at her boyfriend in the middle of the street. I guess that people act differently when angry. To a certain extent, this is true. When Papa and Dad get angry, they transform from their calm, passive selves into men who could knock someone unconscious if they said the wrong thing.

“It’s nothing, love,” Papa says. “Being a taxi driver’s part of my job description.” He chuckles, and Plaxum does too. Lance doesn’t – he stares out of the window and raps his knuckles against the window – and I, as usual, don’t get why this is funny.

With Plaxum telling him the directions, Papa drives us to Plaxum’s house. A man, who I presume is her father, is pruning a hedge in their front garden, and he waves when Plaxum calls his name. He comes over to the car, and leans down to Papa’s window. He has non-rubbed-in sun cream on his nose.

“Hi,” He holds out his hand to Papa, who shakes it. “You must be Lance’s dad. I’m Dan, Plaxum’s dad.”

“Yeah, I’m Coran,” Papa says. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Dan says. “Hey, nice moustache, mate.”

Papa laughs, twisting the ends of his moustache. “Thank you, I take great pride in it.”

Plaxum gets out of the car, and she and her dad thank Papa. She says goodbye to Papa and I, but ignores Lance, who also blanks her.

Then Papa starts the car and we drive off.

“Can I ask what you two were fighting about?” Papa says.

“No,” Lance says, his teeth gritted. But then he adds, “She wants me to go to her stupid friend’s stupid birthday party but I hate Sophie and she got angry with me for saying that Sophie’s a prat but she is and then I got angry and we kept shouting at each other and-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Papa says, holding his free hand up in the air, palm outwards. “Calm down, love.”

Then Papa says, “Is that really why you were arguing? It doesn’t seem a big enough thing to get to you this much.”

“Yes it is,” Lance says, and he runs his fingers through his hair as if his hands are combs. “That’s exactly why we were arguing. Now can you just get out of my private life, please?” But I think this is a rhetorical question.

I can see Papa’s face in the rear view mirror. He doesn’t look happy – I think he does not believe Lance’s story. Which means Lance must be lying.

But why would my younger brother lie to Papa about this? I wish relationships would be made simpler.

 

2

At 7:45pm, when Dad and Papa are watching the TV, I notice Lance leave the room. I have no interest in this programme, so I leave the room and follow after my brother. I go up the stairs and knock on his bedroom door, because I am 99% certain that he is in his room. Sure enough, I hear movement and the door opens.

“Hey, ‘Lura,” he says, his voice flat. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, and I still can’t get used to how blond his hair is now.

I smile. “Hello. Can I talk to you?”

“Depends what it’s about.”

He must be trying to hide something. I clasp my hands behind my back and wring them together.

“Lance,” I say, forcing my words out. “What were you and Plaxum really arguing about?”

Lance blinks. Then he takes a step back. I think he actually stumbles. And then he glares at me, and his expression is angry and defensive. I must be talking about something very important to him, and he doesn’t want do go down that route. But why? What is he hiding?

“For Christ’s sake!” Lance says through gritted teeth, and I again wonder why people say things like this when they’re not Christians. “Not you too, sis. Dad and Papa are bad enough. Can’t you just leave me alone?!”

And he shuts the door.

I blink, and notice that there are tears in my eyes. I manage to stop them spilling over, but it makes my eyes ache. What is going on? Lance and I used to share everything, but recently he has been getting far and far more secretive. And I don’t like it like this.

Sighing heavily, I go into my bedroom and lock the door. I spend the rest of the evening reading my JFK book, eventually falling asleep sat up in bed with my glasses digging into my nose.

 

3

Like many things in my family, our relationships with religion are complicated. Because nothing about the Altea-Smythe family is simple.

As I previously mentioned, Papa grew up in a very strong Christian family. But his family were so homophobic, using their holy scripture as an excuse to be bad people[1], and the atmosphere led to Papa completely rejecting the Christian beliefs he originally held as a child. He became a rather aggressive atheist, but after moving to the UK and starting his new life, he mellowed into a more… normal atheist, in that he doesn’t believe in God, but he doesn’t care if you do – as long as you don’t use your beliefs to treat people badly.

Dad, however, is a religious person. He is a Protestant Christian, he had me christened when I was a baby, and he goes to our local Church every Sunday. His religious beliefs mean a lot to him, and I often find him reading the Bible.

Lance is agnostic, which means that he doesn’t know if he believes in God or not. Basically, his position is between the two previously described. He doesn’t mind going to Church with Dad, but he was never Christened as a baby and doesn’t want to be.

And I am an atheist. My reason for my atheism is probably tied heavily into my autism, in that I struggle to understand things that I can’t see. After all, I love science and I just cannot quite understand how you can believe in a god when there is no way to prove they exist.

However, none of our vastly clashing beliefs cause problems. Dad doesn’t pressure the rest of us to pray or go to Church (although sometimes we do go with him, but I tend to find it boring), Papa and I don’t shame Dad for having beliefs we don’t understand, and none of us pressure Lance to pick a side. We just go along with what each other believe, like a good family does.

But with the arguments and secrets that have been happening lately, I wonder how much long we can be considered a good family…

* * *

Footnotes

[1] I may not be religious, but I know a lot about Christianity. And I know that real Christians are nice people, and don’t misinterpret their Bible as an excuse to be horrible to others. I wish more people understood this.


	4. 02/09/01

Sunday 2nd September 2001

1

The night before I start sixth form, I write a new, sixth form themed schedule for myself.

> 7:30am = Wake up and switch off alarm clock  
>  7:39am = Get out of bed and stretch.  
>  7:41am = Go to the toilet.  
>  7:45am = Go back to my bedroom and get changed. Make sure the clothes are clean first.  
>  7:50am = Have breakfast.  
>  8:05am = Brush teeth and comb hair.  
>  8:09am = Tidy room and make sure all my things are still in the right place.  
>  8:11am = Pack bag with books and stationary for sixth form.  
>  8:15am = Come downstairs and watch TV with Lance.  
>  8:25am = Put shoes on and go out to the car.  
>  8:35am = Go to the school where Papa drops Lance off.  
>  8:50am = Get dropped off at the sixth form.  
>  9:00am = Morning registration  
>  9:10am = Period 1.  
>  10:10am = Period 2.  
>  11:10am = Break time.  
>  11:25am = Period 3.  
>  12:25pm = Period 4.  
>  1:25pm = Lunch time.  
>  1:40pm = Go to the toilet.  
>  1:43pm = Go to the library and read.  
>  2:15pm = Period 5.  
>  3:15pm = Period 6.  
>  4:20pm = Wait for Papa outside the sixth form.  
>  4:25pm = Get picked up by Papa.  
>  4:40pm = Arrive home.  
>  4:42pm = Go to the toilet.  
>  4:50pm = Eat a snack.  
>  4:55pm = Do homework.  
>  6:00pm = Have tea.  
>  6:30pm = Watch television.  
>  7:00pm = Have a shower.  
>  7:15pm = Put pyjamas on.  
>  7:20pm = Tidy bedroom.  
>  7:25pm = Go back downstairs and watch TV.  
>  9:00pm = Go upstairs and brush teeth.  
>  9:04pm = Go to the toilet.  
>  9:06pm = Get into bed.  
>  9:07pm = Read.  
>  10:00pm = Switch lamp off.

Once I have finished it, I go into the study and photocopy my list, so I have one copy for sixth form and one to stick on my bedroom wall.

My sixth form supplies are lying in the corner of my bedroom in a tidy, organised pile. I have spent many hours and at least fifty pounds in the stationary shop stocking up on things for sixth form. Currently, I have:

  * 3 ring binders
  * Three two hundred page refill pads of paper
  * Twenty black and twenty blue biro pens
  * Five pencils
  * A folding ruler
  * A pencil sharpener and an eraser
  * A scientific calculator
  * A maths set including a protractor, a pair of compasses, and a set square



And, my personal favourite, a new bag. My old school bag was covered in graffiti and scratches from my many bullies, so I decided to buy a new one. This bag is a blue, real leather satchel that is large enough to carry all of the things I have bought with space left over. Lance is actually jealous, and keeps bargaining with me to buy it. But it isn’t for sale. I love my new bag.

Once I have finished checking all of these things, I head back downstairs to watch the television.

But, before I go down the staircase, I poke my head into Dad and Papa’s bedroom. Dad has been in bed all day, only getting up to use the toilet, and even then, he crawls to the bathroom and back. He is awake; I can see the light that I am leaking into the room reflecting off of his eyeballs.

Dad must see me, because he turns his head in my direction.

“Hi, Allura,” He slurs. “A-a-re you looking forward t-to starting s-sixth form?”

I nod. “Yes, Dad.”

“Y-you’ll do great. You’re s-so clever.” He smiles, but one corner of his mouth doesn’t stretch as far up his face as the other, making him look lopsided.

“Thank you, Dad,” I decide to leave him alone, and, closing the bedroom door, head back across the landing and down the stairs.

Papa is alone in the living room. Even though it is half past nine, Lance is still out, which means he is half an hour over his curfew. Which is why Papa is gripping his mobile phone so tightly that I think he may crack the plastic casing, and his fingers tremble as he types and retypes Plaxum’s family’s phone number. But they must not be home, because Papa just gets voicemail each time.

When he sees me, Papa says, “Where might Lance be, Allura? Please think.”

I don’t know. I thought that Lance was at Plaxum’s house, but that doesn’t seem to be true. He could have gone out to a friend’s house, or perhaps a party.

So that is what I tell him. “I don’t mean to make you stressed, Papa, but I think he might be at a party.”

“A party?” Papa groans. “Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he tell me where he’s going? I know he’s annoyed with me, but...”

Papa banned Lance from going out this morning, saying he needed to prepare for starting school tomorrow, and Lance stormed out. We haven’t seen or heard from him since 11:32 this morning, and it is now 9:34pm, so I think Papa’s worries are justified. But he hasn’t told Dad, saying that he didn’t want Dad to get worried, lest it make him feel even worse.

By the time 10:00pm comes around, Papa seems close to tears. But, just as I think Papa is going to start crying on me, the doorbell rings. Papa smiles, and rushes as fast as he can to the front door. He opens it, and starts shouting.

“Where the bloody hell have you been, young man? I was so worried!”

I follow after Papa, and see him yelling at Lance, who is leaning against the doorframe. Papa grabs Lance’s arm and pulls him into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. Lance’s hair is tousled, his eyes are bleary, and he looks exhausted.

But then Papa stops shouting, and pulls Lance into a tight hug. I don’t understand. I thought he was angry.

When Papa lets him go, Lance mumbles, “Sorry for not phoning. I was at Plaxum’s.”

“But – but I kept phoning them and got through to voice mail,” Papa says.

Lance swallows hard. And then he says, “They had a power cut.”

This is where I cut in, “But if they had a power cut, their voice mail wouldn’t be working.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance says. He tries again. “I wasn’t at Plaxum’s! I went to my mate’s house.”

“Which mate?” Papa asks.

“I...He...The...” Lance’s head darts from side to side, and he tries to run upstairs – but Papa grabs him by the back of his shirt and stops him.

I sit on the bottom step and watch their discussion, intrigued. I wonder how long it will take before Lance cracks and he tells the truth. It happens at 10:26pm, twenty six minutes after Papa started interrogating him.

Lance sighs, and mumbles, “I went to a party,”

I expect Papa to start screaming at Lance again, but what he does shocks me, and, judging by his facial expression, Lance too.

He says nothing; Papa just sighs and then limps back into the living room, shutting the door behind him. And when Lance tries to go in to speak to him, Papa asks him to go away, but he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds sad.


	5. 03/09/01

Monday 3rd September 2001

1

At 8:53am, three minutes after we should have, Papa and I arrive at the sixth form. He parks in a disabled space, and then turns around in his seat to face me. He has bags under his eyes, and looks exhausted.

“Well, here we are,” Papa says, “...are... you going to go in?”

I don’t respond; I stare out of the window, looking at the other students. There are not as many of them as I had feared, and, although I dislike stereotyping people, they do seem to be more academic than the majority of the people at school. If this is true, I may have a better chance at making friends.

I take a deep breath, “Yes. See you this afternoon, Papa.” I squeeze Papa’s hand and then clamber out of the car. Papa waves at me through the windscreen as I walk away.

“Good luck,” He calls.

I stare at my new, black leather shoes as I traipse the short distance between the car park and the front door. I count my steps, and calculate that the distance is approximately fifteen metres in length.

I have to press a button to enter the building, and then follow the signs to find my tutor room. When I manage to find room 108, which is an English classroom, judging by the displays on the walls, it is 8:59am, so I am a minute early. The desks are arranged in three rows of five desks, and, currently, the whole back row and half of the middle row are full.

I have never understood why people like to sit at the back – I always sit near the teacher so they can clearly see when people bully me. So it doesn’t take me long to pick my tutor room seat: the desk in the front right corner, right in front if the teacher’s desk.

As I walk to my chosen seat, five different people all say hello to me. I say hello back, surprised that people want to talk to me. Although that might change when they notice that I am different. Dad thinks I am far too cynical about this, but I have been bullied by too many people to trust others easily.

I take a seat, and take my new notebook and pencil case out of my satchel. I tense up as the rest of my tutor group filter into the room, but none of them approach me, or bully me, or sit down in the seat next to mine. Which is fine by me.

Eventually, at 9:04am, my tutor enters the room, and I groan. It is the patronising woman who enrolled me into the sixth form last week. I suddenly feel like sitting at the back of the room.

She introduces herself as Mrs Smith. I zone out as she gives a typical welcoming speech, and stare out of the window instead. These speeches are always the same – they welcome you into a new school year, tell you how high their expectations are, and say how much fun they hope you will have. Her speech lasts two minutes, and then she takes the register.

My name is fifteenth on the list, but Mrs Smith gets interrupted just after I reply with, “Here,” Another student appears in the doorway, judging by the heavy breathing coming from that part of the room.

“Sorry I’m late,” The student says, and now I turn round to look, because I recognise that voice. I see a purple hearing aid, and a purple and white wrist watch. And then I realise where I have see this girl before – she’s the girl I talked to in the underground station! I cannot believe it! I can meet her again!

But Mrs Smith doesn’t appear as pleased to see her as I am, “Why’re you late?” She says, picking up her pen to write the girl’s answer down.

The girl fiddles with the clasp of her watch, and says, “My parents were just running late, Miss.”

“It’s Mrs Smith to you... what’s your name?” She asks.

“Katie Holt,” She moves across the room, and sits down in the only spare seat – next to me.

“Ah, here you are,” Mrs Smith makes a mark on the register, and then picks up a stack of paper. She gets up, and begins to hand individual sheets out to each student.

Katie looks at me, and then says, “Hey, it’s you! I had no idea that you lived near here.”

“Hello,” I reply, flashing a quick smile to be polite, and I wonder why being around Katie is making me feel so happy. “I’m Allura.”

“Hi, Allura,” Katie says, and her hands are flapping.

Then we sit in silence. I never find silence like this awkward, but I know others do, so I try what Dr David told me and attempt small talk, “Do you dislike Mrs Smith? Because I do.”

Katie giggles, “Yeah – she’s a bitch, isn’t she? I mean, I couldn’t help being late.”

Mrs Smith comes up behind us, and drops two pieces of paper onto our desk. I pick one up, and see it is my timetable. After studying it for ten seconds, I see that I my first lesson is double biology.

Katie must have looked at my timetable, because she says, “I’ve got biology too,” And then she ducks her head, her face reddening. “Do... do you want to walk with me?”

This surprises me – not only does she find me funny, but she wants to spend more time in my company than necessary. I have never met someone like this before. It is amazing to see someone genuinely wanting to be with me.

So when the bell rings at 9:10am, Katie and I follow the signs and head through the sixth form until we find the science laboratories. I am pleased to see that, unlike in the science labs at school, the sixth form’s labs have proper chairs, rather than stools. Because I have such poor balance, I always felt very unsteady when I sat on the stools, and often got very close to falling off.

I realise that Katie has already sat down and is waving at me, so I sit down next to Katie, and unpack my bag.

“Awesome bag!” Katie says, grinning.

I blush, smiling. “Thank you.”

I am amazed how fast my two hour biology lesson goes by, but when I consider how interesting it is, it isn’t that surprising. Our very kind and not remotely patronising teacher, Miss Wright, teaches us about osmosis, but in much more detail than what I learned at GCSE. And Miss Wright informs us that our desk partners were who we would be sitting next to for the rest of the year.

“That’s great, isn’t it, Allura?” Katie grins again. I have to wonder exactly why Katie seems to like me so much – it is beginning to confuse me.

When the bell for break time, we head out into the corridor, but I stop in the doorway, shaking. All of a sudden, this rather small sixth form of four hundred students seems crowded. Too crowded.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I squeal, rushing out into the corridor to get away. But now I am surrounded by people, all of them speaking and rushing and walking so close to me that I have to tense up and cross my arms to prevent any physical contact.

I screw my eyes up, feeling my pulse thumping in my neck, and hope I can wait until everyone has gone. I can’t have a meltdown, not here, not now.

But my heart beats faster still. The overwhelmingly loud roar of the crowd fades away, until it sounds like I am underwater. The floor begins to sway beneath my feet. I can see swirls and flashes on the backs of my eyelids.

“Allura!” A voice penetrates the roaring in my ears, but it is tiny and wavering, and echoes around my head. But even in this state I know who it is. It is Katie.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Allura, but I’m here,” Katie says, her voice getting louder. “Is there any way I can touch you without hurting you?”

I have to think this through several times before I can understand what Katie said. When I do, I hold my hand out blindly. Katie grasps it, her hand very warm and her fingers circling my wrist.

“I’m taking you somewhere quiet, Allura,” Katie’s voice is almost a normal volume now. She tugs gently on my hand, and leads me down the corridor. I count twenty six steps, and then we turn left.

Now my hearing is coming back, I can hear Katie’s words of comfort, but also what other students are saying.

A male voice says, “What’s wrong with her?”

Three steps later, another male voice says, “What the bloody hell’s up with her?” But with stronger expletives.

After ninety more steps, Katie stops, opens a door, and leads me into a room. It is very calm, very cool, very quiet. I risk opening my eyes, and see a bed, a sink, a box labelled ‘DEFIBRILLATOR’. This must be the medical room.

A woman comes into the room from behind us. She has dark hair and is wearing a thick, woollen, blue cardigan.

“Can I help you two ladies?” She asks us. When I glance at her face, I see her look downwards, at our connected hands. She shakes her head slightly, but says nothing. I expect Katie to let go of my hand, but she doesn’t. And I’m glad, because I feel strangely calm with Katie’s warm hand in my own.

“I hope so,” Katie says, “My friend here is autistic, and she panicked in the busy corridors. Could she have a medical pass so she can leave lessons five minutes early?”

They debate Katie’s suggestion for several minutes, but I do not listen. Because I keep thinking about what Katie said. She said I was her friend. And this has confused me. I mean, I like Katie – she is kind and supportive – but we have only known each other for two hours and fifteen minutes. Is that long enough to decide if someone will be your friend or not?

By the time the bell for the end of break time has rang, the medical lady hands me a slip of pink paper. Katie squeezes my hand, and I see her smiling out of the corner of my eye. We head back out into the corridor, and I hear the medical lady make a tutting sound.

As we walk, I turn the paper slip over in my hand, and wonder if it is possible for Katie to be my friend.

 

2

My confusion continues when I check my timetable, and compare it to Katie’s. I have mathematics next, but Katie’s next lesson is physics. We walk together until we reach the staircase, which Katie goes up, waving at me as she does so.

Now alone, I wander through the building’s ground floor. But as I do, I begin to feel lonely. This is why I am confused, because I never feel lonely. I like being alone, but... there is something about Katie that I miss now we have gone in different directions.

By the time I find my maths classroom, it is 11:29am, and I am four minutes late for the lesson. I stand in the doorway, and wait for the teacher to notice me. He does so after three more minutes, when he turns around from writing on the whiteboard. He is losing his hair[1], has a pair of glasses with bright green rims resting on the top of his head, and is wearing a black tie with the first few hundred digits of Pi[2] on it.

“Hello,” He says, with an Irish accent. “You must be Allura. May I ask why you’re late?” But he doesn’t sound angry, not like Mrs Smith did when she spoke to Katie.

All of the twenty two students turn around and stare at me. My cheeks start burning, and I stare at my feet.

“I was in the medical room, Sir,” I say.

“It’s Mr Allen,” Then he says, “Are you okay? Do you feel ill?” He asks. I think he may be concerned.

“No,” I hold up the pass I was given. “I had to get this.”

Mr Allen nods, “Ah, I see. Well, Allura, would you like to take a seat?”

I nod, and scan the room for an available seat. The only one is in the front row, on the same desk as one of the girls. I make my way to the front, and collapse into the seat beside her. I smile quickly, but she doesn’t back.

I try to ignore her, and write my name on the orange exercise book that is on my desk. Mr Allen’s Pi tie is highly relevant, because our lesson is on the topic of terminating and recurring decimals.

After five minutes of talking to us, Mr Allen sets us an independent task out of the textbook, and he sits down at his desk. The room is very quiet – I can only hear the scratch of pens and the low hum of whispered conversations.

I am halfway through the exercise when my desk partner speaks to me.

“Hey, Allura,” She says. From her accent, I guess she used to live in London. “Are you the girl who had a freak out in the science block?” Her voice shakes, like she is trying not to laugh. The two girls on the neighbouring desk start giggling.

“Yes,” I say. I go back to my calculations, only for the girl to push down on the end of my pen. The force makes the nib burst, and ink sprays across the page of work.

“Oops,” She laughs.

“Shit!” I take a screwed up tissue out of my pocket and try to blot the ink, but my hands are shaking, and all it does is smear the ink over even more of my work.

“Watch your language, Allura,” Mr Allen calls from the back of the room, where he is helping a student fix his calculator.

I start shaking, my face flushes, and I can’t think straight. All I can hear is the laughter, and what Mr Allen said to me, and how he told me off. But it wasn’t fair – I only swore because my desk partner made me angry.

“It wasn’t my fault!” I yell, and everyone jumps.

Mr Allen comes over to me. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing, Sir,” The girl smiles at him. I want to smash her in the face. “Allura’s just having another freak out.”

“No I’m not!” I can feel tears stinging my eyes. I know getting upset is ridiculous in my situation, but I hate being blamed for something that wasn’t my fault. “She pushed my pen and the ink went everywhere. Look.” I hold up my ruined work.

“It was an accident.”

I stare at her, “No it wasn’t! She ruined my work, Sir.”

“Kate’s right, Sir,” One of the girls next to Kate adds.

“No she’s not!” Tears splatter the lenses of my glasses, blurring my vision, and run down my cheeks. I hate them, why can’t they just leave me alone?

Now Kate laughs, “Why’re you so pathetic? What’s wrong with you?”

My pulse drums in my ears, my hands shake and my throat aches. But I still manage to shout, “I’m autistic. Leave me alone!” I put my hands over my ears, my fingers gripping at my wavy hair.

“Everybody – calm down!” Mr Allen says, his voice calm yet firm.

The room falls silent, and then he says, “Kate, you’ve got detention for damaging Allura’s work - ”

“What?” Kate moans. “That’s so unfair.”

“And Allura, you swap seats with Craig.” Mr Allen continues as though he hadn’t been interrupted.

I don’t complain; I smile as I shove my book and pencil case back into my bag and get to my feet. A very tall boy with messy blonde hair stands up, so I head to the back of the room. He smiles at me as we pass each other.

The empty seat is next to a boy on the back row. He sits in an electric wheelchair, ands a green nasal canula stands out starkly against his dark but sallow skin. The tubes attach to an oxygen cylinder on the back of his wheelchair. He looks exhausted and ill, but he smiles brightly.

“Hi,” He says as I sit down beside him. “I’m Hunk.”

“Hello,” I reply, smiling politely. “I’m Allura.” I take my glasses off and wipe the lenses, and my face, dry with the cuff of my cardigan.

Hunk proves to be a much better desk partner. He cannot talk for long without getting breathless, but we have several short conversations about mathematics, and our other A levels, and what we want to do when we leave sixth form. Hunk wants to study to be an auctorial scientist, which he could be, because he is very clever. He is studying maths, further maths, computing and economics, and got twelve As and A*s at GCSE. I want to get a PhD at university, but I don’t know which subject to study.

I thought that I was very good at mathematics, but there are several questions that I struggle with, and two that I have no idea how to answer. But Hunk can answer them all, and helps me when I get stuck. Maybe I might be making my second friendship?

Hunk also has a pass to leave five minutes early, so at 1:20pm, we both leave class and head through the school and into the canteen. They serve chips here, so I get a plateful and grab a table in the quietest part of the canteen, saving a seat for Katie.

Hunk sits at the wheelchair accessible table on the other side of the canteen, but he smiles across the room when he sees me looking at him.

It is 1:31pm and I have eaten two thirds of my chips when Katie appears. She sits down beside me and takes her packed lunch out of her satchel.

“How was your maths lesson?” Katie asks, before cramming seven crisps into her mouth at once.

I tell her about the positives (Mr Allen being kind and meeting Hunk) and the negatives (Kate and my ruined work). I take out my book and show her the now dry but equally ruined page, and she gasps.

“What a cow,” She says. But then Katie adds, “Do you like Hunk? He went to my primary school – he’s got cerebral palsy and is really friendly.”

“Yes,” I say, “He’s nice.” I hate the word nice – what does it even mean?

“Are you sure you don’t ‘like’ him?” Katie grins, using air quotes. “You’d make a cute couple.”

“Like?” I say, wondering what the point of her air quotes was. It’s strange how Katie is autistic too, but she’s far better socially than I am.

“I mean, like, love him.”

Ah, now I understand.

“I don’t think I ‘like’ anybody,” I copy her use of air quotes. “I’ve never found anyone attractive. Why, do you ‘like’ Hunk?” I add, wondering if this might be an attempt for us to discuss who Katie ‘likes’.

Katie looks downwards. “You’re probably asexual,” She says, ignoring my question. When she sees my puzzled expression, she adds, “It means you don’t find anyone attractive. And the abbreviation is ‘ace’. Isn’t that cool?” She grins, but not in the same way as before.

I want to know why she is avoiding my question. Does Katie love Hunk? Or is it something else?

 

3

I immediately regret going to the girls toilets without Katie. She wanted to come too, but was still eating, and I insisted that I was fine and didn’t want her to rush. But when I open the door and the high pitched rumble of voices fills my ears, I suddenly want a companion by my side.

Breathing deeply, I back away and shut the door, and lean against the wall. I want to go in, but the toilets are too crowded, and I don’t think I could cope in there. But I really do need to go...

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve opened the door again, and I walk into the girls toilets. There are five cubicles and five sinks along the wall, each with a mirror above it. Judging by the level of grime and the unpleasant smell, it has been several days since this place was last cleaned.

Kate is sat on the edge of one of the sinks, swinging her legs. She speaks at an alarmingly fast rate, and the other fifteen girls are transfixed, all of them laughing and saying things like, ‘No way!’ or ‘You’re so funny!’. You know, typical sycophants.

I don’t want her to see me, so I hold my breath and creep across the room towards one of the vacant cubicles.

“Hey, Allura!” Kate calls my name, and I freeze. My heart pounds and I feel my stomach churn with nausea.

Without looking in her direction, I spin on my heels and hurry out of the toilets. In desperation, I rush into the disabled toilet. I know that I shouldn’t use the disabled toilet without having a physical impairment – Papa has had many problems over the years with able-bodied people using the disabled toilet when he needs it – but I am about to wet myself, and try to be as quick as I can.

Fifty eight seconds after I locked the door, I unlock it, and the door swings open. And Hunk is sat outside, waiting to use the toilet.

I suddenly feel like I am one of the insensitive people who made Papa wet himself waiting for the toilet.

“I’m sorry, Hunk,” I say, rushing through my words, and hurry out of his way. I can feel my face flushing.

“Don’t worry, Allura. I’m not annoyed with you.” Hunk says, and then wheels himself into the cubical.

I don’t know whether or not he is lying, but him saying that has made me feel a bit less embarrassed.

After I meet back up with Katie, we make our way through the building in search of the library. As we walk, I see that Katie looks at my face on three separate occasions. After the third, she finally speaks.

“Why’re so so sweaty?”

“I embarrassed myself.” I say. Well, it’s true.

“Why?”

But, luckily, I don’t have to answer her. I open the library door, and we both enter the room, silent apart from the hum of the air conditioner. And this means I do not have to reply to Katie, which is good. So I turn away from her, and look around.

This library is amazing. Shelves crammed with books go from the floor right up to the ceiling, covering all of the walls and most of the floor space. There are three four-seat tables squashed into the limited space, with the librarian’s desk in the far corner. And the best part is that it, apart from three students browsing the non-fiction section, is deserted.

“Wow,” Katie breathes.

This impresses me. “I had no idea that you like books,”

Katie nods, “Yeah, I love libraries. This place’s much better than the one at my school.”

“Same as mine,” I agree. The library at my secondary school was small and pathetic – they didn’t even have a copy of _Gray’s Anatomy **[3]**_.

To check if this new library does have said book, I locate the biology section, running my finger along the creased, battered spines as I look. After three minutes and sixteen seconds of searching, I find the book I am looking for.

My arms ache as I haul the huge, hard backed book off of the shelf. As fast as I can, I rush across the room and drop it on the table. It thumps down so hard that the noise makes me wince and makes the librarian ‘ssh’ me.

“What’s so good about it, Allura?” Katie asks. I don’t reply; I open the book and show her some of the incredibly complex diagrams of the human body. She groans and covers her mouth when she sees the diagram of the brain, and giggles at the diagram of the male reproductive system.

After I point at and name each of the bones, muscles and ligaments in the arm without looking at the labels, Katie rests her chin on her hand and stares at me, a smile on her face. And she says, “You know so much about the human body, Allura. Do you want to be a doctor?”

But that’s just it: I have no idea what I want to do for my career. Papa says that I can do anything I want, but I know that is not true – my social skills are so poor that any jobs dealing with the public are not possible, and I can’t do anything practical or creative because I have pretty much no imagination, and I would love to be a diplomat but I know that is never going to happen.

I do wish people would tell the truth.

 

4

When the bell for the end of the day rings at 4:15pm, I am relieved. I had double chemistry after lunch, and it turned out that Kate and her friends are in my class. Whilst I managed to avoid sitting near them, they all talked about me behind my back, and threw balls of paper at my back when the teacher was not looking. So I am glad to get away.

I forgot to use my pass, so rush through the building as fast as I can to avoid the crowds about to fill the corridors. At 4:17pm, I sit down on a bench near the disabled parking spaces, and wait for Papa to pick me up.

As I wait, I pull my notebook out of my bag. I have been set homework in biology and maths, but not chemistry, luckily. But I stop reading when I hear footsteps behind my back. For a few seconds, I think it might be Kate coming to beat me up, and my chest tightens. But then I hear a familiar voice, and relax.

“Hi, Allura.” Katie says, sitting down beside me. “How was chemistry?”

“Awful,” Is all I say.

Katie tilts her head to the side. “Why?”

I sigh, and recount the events of my chemistry lesson. Katie also sighs, and fiddles with her hearing aid.

“Why must there always be someone horrible, wherever you go?” She says. She takes her hearing aid out and rubs the area between the back of her ear and her head. Her hearing aid must be rubbing.

My response once Katie puts her hearing aid back in is, “I don’t know.” But she is right – it isn’t fair.

At 4:20pm, a car pulls up nearby, and honks its horn three times. I have to cover my ears, my head pounding.

Katie looks over at the car, and says, “That’s my mum.” She stands up and walks towards the car. “See you tomorrow, Allura.”

“Goodbye,” I say, because that’s what Dr David said that I need to do when someone leaves the conversation.

My eyes follow Katie as she gets into the large, green Land Rover. Her mother, sat in the driver’s seat, has brown hair that looks much like Katie’s, and is wearing a lot of fake tan, judging by the unnaturally orange tinge to her skin. The tan is even darker around her left eye, as though she is trying to cover something up...

“Allura, love!” I hear Papa’s voice, and my head jerks sharply in that direction. Our car is parked in a disabled bay, and Papa’s window has been wound down. He leans out, and says, “Thank God for that – you were in a right trance.”

I hurry over to the car and clamber into my usual seat, my bag on my lap.

“So,” Papa says, starting the car. “How was your day?”

I take a deep breath, and tell Papa all about my new friend, my new enemy, and everything in between. This must make Papa angry, because his face goes red, and he grips the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles go white.

But then he exhales sharply, and says, “Well, it’s good that you’ve made a friend, isn’t it, love? What’s she like?”

“Do you remember when we went to London and I spoke to that girl on the underground platform?” I ask. Before Papa can reply, I add, “That was Katie.”

Papa chuckles. “Well I never.”

“She’s very kind. She helped me when I got scared in a crowded corridor, and persuaded the medical officer to give me this,” I hold up the card, but, realising that Papa can’t read whilst driving, I say, “It’s a pass to leave lessons early.”

“That’s good,” Papa seems a lot calmer now, but his grip on the steering wheel still has not relaxed.

The rest of the journey passes silently; I close my eyes and lean into the headrest. I can hear Papa breathing heavily, as if he is out of breath. But that would not make sense, because he hasn’t done anything to leave him breathless.

I count the number of roundabouts we pass; once we go around the seventh, I know we have arrived onto our estate. Indeed, only two minutes later, the car draws to a sudden halt. I open my eyes and see the familiar sight of our blue garage door.

“Papa?” I say as something occurs to me.

“Hmm?” He murmurs, picking up his walking stick.

“Where’s Lance? Shouldn’t we have picked him up?”

Papa smiles for some reason, and opens his door. “He said he wanted to start taking the bus.”

“I see,” I nod my head. “I wish he had told me that.”

Papa chuckles. “I see what you mean.”

We make our way into the house. Dad is in the living room, curled up on the sofa bed. He still looks so poorly.

“How’s your day?” Dad mumbles, his voice slurring.

And even though I am so worried about him, I sit on the sofa bed and tell Dad about my day. I talk about the place and the teachers and my subjects, I tell him about the nasty people I met. And I tell him about Katie and Hunk.

When I am finished, Dad smiles his lopsided smile. “I’m so proud of… you, d-darling.”

I smile and squeeze his hand.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] Male pattern baldness is called **androgenetic** or **androgenic alopecia**.

[2] This is Pi to 50 decimal places: 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510

[3] Full title: _Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body._ It is the best book on the human anatomy I have ever read, and I’ve read a lot of books like that, trust me.


	6. 05/09/01

Wednesday 5th September 2001

 

1

I am holding Katie’s hand. We are walking through my local park, but the trees are larger and the grass is greener and the people I see aren’t the horrible kids I know from school (who like to hang around at this park, explaining why I do not normally come here), but friendly people walking their dogs who smile at us. It is very peaceful.

Katie is wearing a long pink dress, her hair clipped up at the front but at the back cascading down her shoulders. And she smiles at me, looking so happy. She squeezes my hand, and I smile too.

“This place is lovely, Allura,” Katie says, and her free hand is flapping just like she always does when she is happy or excited.

And I am about to say something in reply, but I can’t… because I wake up.

 

2

I blink, looking at the shadows of my bedroom furniture in the dark, and it takes several seconds (if I count accurately in my head, seven seconds, to be precise) to process what just happened. I was asleep, dreaming about Katie, and awoke with a start. According to my clock (I have a digital clock, because the ticking noise made by most analogue ones hurts my ears), it is 3:55am.

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. That was confusing. I have never had a positive dream about people I know in real life; the only dreams that feature people I know I have had are nightmares, horrible dreams featuring my bullies from school hurting me or bad things happening to Dad, Papa and Lance. So to have a dream featuring a real person that was actually nice is… bizarre.

Despite it being almost 4am, I realise that I am not very sleepy. I probably won’t be able to get back to sleep now. Sighing, I yawn and sit up in bed, putting my glasses on. I reach for my JFK book, planning on reading some more about his assassination and the subsequent theories rather than just lying here and not sleeping for three hours, but I only read a paragraph before I get distracted. Because I notice that I am not the only one awake at 4am.

At first, I panic, starting to rock back and forth, because I think it might be Dad again, vomiting in the bathroom. And I don’t want that to happen, because I don’t want Dad to be getting worse and I also don’t want him and Papa to argue again. But I still creep out of bed, walking on tiptoe, and check the bathroom. It is empty, and Dad and Papa are in their room. So Lance must be the one on the move.

On the landing, at the top of the stairs, I hear a voice. Lance is downstairs, talking to someone! But who? So I tiptoe down the stairs, wringing my hands together (I would click my fingers, but I want to keep quiet), and find Lance sat in the hallway. He has the telephone to his face, and whispers into the handset. My brother is seriously on the phone at 4:04am; that is weird, even for some of the things Lance has done.

He doesn’t notice my presence, so I just stand there and listen to what he says.

“Are you sure?” he whispers. There is a muffled buzzing sound on the other end of the line, and then Lance says, “Shit! No… no, it’ll be okay. I promise.”

Something bad must be going on. I don’t want to eavesdrop anymore. So I step down the stairs and whisper, “Lance, what are you doing?”

And he jumps and spins around to look at me, and everything about his body language suggests panic (although I have been known to misunderstand body language). “Shit!”

“I’ve gotta go,” Lance mumbles into the handset, and he puts the phone down. Then he glares at me. “What’re you doing?”

I shrug and click my fingers. “I was awake. I heard you talking. Lance, what’s going on?”

“Nothing… nothing’s going on, sis,” Lance says, and he starts bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Are you sure?”

Lance sshs me and gestures towards the living room door. Understanding, I follow him and we shut the door, making it easier to talk without alerting Dad and Papa.

“Look, Allura, I know this all seems really suspicious,” he says. “But it’s fine. Me and Plaxum were just having a chat. Really.”

I know he is lying. But I don’t want to start and argument. And I don’t know what he is hiding from me. I click my fingers.

Lance is looking at me. He frowns, chewing his bottom lip. I want him to tell me. I don’t want there to be secrets between us. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, and I remember that we are both wearing our pyjamas.

“Do you want to watch a video?” he asks. And I know he is only trying to change the subject, but I nod my head.

And Lance smiles, but I know his smile is hiding something.

We decide to watch series three of Red Dwarf, which Dad taped off of the TV. I like Red Dwarf; it is very funny.

The episode we watch is called Polymorph, and is about a strange GM creature that can change into anything. It makes its potential prey very emotional by angering them, or scaring them, et cetera, and then sucks out the negative emotion. This happens to the four characters on Red Dwarf, leaving one passive and overly calm (anger), one rude and obnoxious (guilt), one slobby with low self esteem (vanity), and the other one reckless and idiotic (fear). Somehow, they manage to kill the Polymorph, but for much of the episode, their changed personalities lead to some very funny situations.

The best scene is where Lister (the only human) puts on a pair of underpants that are, in fact, the Polymorph, which begin to shrink. He falls to the floor writhing and screaming, begging Kryten (a robot) to remove his pants for him. Kryten does so, and then Rimmer (a hologram) walks in to see Kryten kneeling between Lister’s legs with his hands under Lister’s dressing gown, and Lister thrashing about, screaming. When Rimmer says, “You’ll bonk anything, won’t you, Lister?” both me and Lance laugh so much that Papa calls down the stairs to find out what is going on.

Still howling with laughter, Lance rushes out into the hallway and shouts up the stairs, “Sorry! We’re watching a video ‘cause we can’t sleep and it made us laugh. We’ll try to be quiet.”

“Righto,” Papa says, yawning, and Lance comes back into the room.

“Oops,” he whispers, and he starts giggling.

And even though I am confused by Lance’s behaviour, his giggles make me laugh. Soon, we are both laughing, covering our mouths to muffle the noise, and settle down to watch Red Dwarf more quietly this time.

 

3 My morning chemistry lesson involves the normal level of bullying, but maths after break time is much better. Because even though I still have to share a class with lots of horrible girls, I have Hunk as my desk partner. I have only known him for two days, but I really like Hunk; I think we are becoming close friends.

“Did you get bullied at school?” I ask, looking up from my textbook (and ignoring Kate doing a rude hand gesture at me).

Hunk laughs, but it is a bitter, hollow laugh. “Yeah, I did. Primary and secondary school. In fact, the couple of days I’ve been at sixth form is probably the only time I haven’t been bullied.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, because it is socially polite to apologise for something someone else did to a person. Poor Hunk; it seems that school was even worse for him than it was for me, and that means it must have been awful. “But at least you aren’t being bullied now.”

Hunk smiles. “Yeah, that’s true. Hey, do you know the answer to question 5a?”

I stare at him. In the three lessons Hunk and I have shared, he has always been better at maths than me. So the idea of him needing my help is rather strange. But as I do know the answer, it also fills me with pride.

“Um, yes, I do,” I say, and I point to the question and start to explain the answer I gave.

And as long as I don’t look at the front of the classroom where Kate and her friends keep turning around and staring at me, this is the first maths lesson I have at sixth form that I genuinely enjoy.

 

4 As usual, Hunk and I leave maths five minutes early, and wander through the empty corridors towards the canteen. This time, I join Hunk at the wheelchair accessible table and we start working on our maths homework as we eat our packed lunch.

Putting a salt and vinegar crisp into my mouth, I make a mistake and have to scribble it out. “This is bloody difficult.”

Hunk is unfortunately taking a sip of his water when he decides to laugh at my comment, and nearly chokes.

“Careful!” I cry, ready to perform first aid if necessary.

Thankfully, Hunk doesn’t choke, instead coughing water down his shirt. We stare at each other for a few seconds, and start laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” Katie asks, wandering over. The canteen is filling with students, and she sits down next to us, giving us a puzzled look as she fiddles with her hearing aid.

Wiping his mouth, Hunk says, “Nothing. I just nearly choked to death.”

Katie giggles. “Honestly. So, how was maths?”

“Fine,” I say. “Other than avoiding the bitchy girls trying to get my attention.”

“Yeah, that’s about right,” Hunk says. “How was physics?”

“It was fascinating,” Katie says, and she gets out her notebook and shows us some incredibly complicated formulas written in green ink. Even as a mathematics student, I find it complicated; judging by his facial expression, Hunk is also confused. Katie notices, raising her eyebrows. “What?”

And it is her turn to burst into giggles.

 

5

After sixth form, I head upstairs to locate Lance. He must be in his bedroom, because the door is shut. I can’t stop thinking about what happened in the early hours of the morning, and what Lance might be hiding from me. My watch says it is 4:45pm when I knock three times on his bedroom door.

“Lance?” I call. “I know you’re in here. Can we talk?”

“Please go away, Allura,” Lance says. He sounds tired.

Again, I don’t want to cause an argument, so I leave him alone. Still worried about Lance, I go to my bedroom and do my homework.

At the time we usually have dinner, I go downstairs. Papa is in the kitchen, preparing beans on toast for four, Lance is laying the table, and Dad is slumped on the sofa bed, looking very poorly, as usual.

Papa normally cooks us a proper meal, so the fact he is only making beans on toast suggests that he doesn’t feel very well today. His MS might be heading towards a relapse, leaving him with limited energy. My theory is proved (somewhat) correct when Papa notices me stood in the doorway and says, “Hi, love. I’m not feeling the most energetic today. I hope you don’t mind a snacky meal.”

“No, its fine,” I say. As long as we eat soon, I don’t mind what we eat.

Unfortunately, dinner is disgusting! Papa managed to burn the both the beans and the toast, and it makes my mouth taste like charcoal. I lie and say that I’m not hungry after one mouthful, but Dad and Lance eat their whole platefuls. They both say it is nice, but grimace and at one point Lance heaves like he is going to be sick.

Papa puts his knife and fork down and folds his arms. “If you lot think my food is so disgusting, then cook your own bloody food.”

Dad reaches across the table and holds Papa’s hand. “Come on, Coran,” he says, “don’t get huffy. We didn’t mean to offend you.”

Dad manages to cheer Papa up by being a sycophant, and eventually Papa kisses Dad on the cheek, and tells Dad to sit down in the living room. Lance and I followed Papa into the kitchen to help with the washing up, not wanting him to relapse as he is obviously struggling today.

Sure enough, once we are in the kitchen, I say, “Do you feel bad today, Papa?”

Papa looks at me, and nods. “I do a bit, love. I hope I don’t relapse.”

“You won’t,” Lance says, patting Papa’s arm. “As long as you don’t overexert yourself.”

Which is exactly why we help him clear up. Papa washes the plates up, Lance dries them with the red and white striped tea towel, and I put everything back in the right cupboards. Once I am done, I take a cereal bar out of the cupboard and joined the others in the living room to watch the television. Dad and Papa are cuddled up together, Dad with his head leaning against Papa’s shoulder, and they look so happy.

“Does anyone want to watch a video?” Papa asks.

Lance grins and holds up a familiar VHS tape. “How about Red Dwarf?”

Dad smiles. “You’ve got good taste.”

And even though this is going against my routine, I find that I don’t care. This is more important to me, spending time with my family when everyone is happy and smiling like we used to be, and I just enjoy it while it lasts.


	7. 07/09/01

Friday 7th September 2001

 

1

“Hey, Allura!” Katie cries, running down the corridor towards me.

It is the start of my fifth day at sixth form, and it has already become a routine for me and Katie to meet in the corridor outside our tutor room before reluctantly going in together and facing our hateful form tutor.

“Hello, Katie!” I say, grinning. “It’s good to see you.”

And it really is. It makes me very happy to see Katie every morning, because she is the first real friend I’ve ever had, and I’m so glad we met. I hope we can be friends forever.

 

2                 

When sixth form is over, Katie and I sit on a bench outside and moan about the amount of homework we have. I rather like studying, but something about being forced to do homework has always annoyed me; anyway, we study so much at sixth form that it seems cruel to make us spend hours of our free time doing yet more work.

“I wish they would cut us some slack,” Katie says, swinging her legs as she sits on the bench (Katie is about ten centimetres shorter than me, and her feet don’t quite touch the ground). “It’s too much pressure.”

“I know what you mean,” I say. “I was set three pieces of homework today. And as much as I love my subjects, the homework is so difficult and takes ages to complete.”

Katie laughs, but it is an irritated laugh. “Tell me about it! The wankers.”

Her use of a swearword makes me giggle, and soon we are both laughing. But then I check my watch, noting that it is 4:30pm, and I wonder why Papa is later than usual. My laughter dies, and I sigh. I reach into my pocket to look at my timetable for next week, and nearly drop my pass card. I turn the card over in my fingers, a fond smile appearing on my face.

“Thank you for helping me get this, Katie,” I say, smiling. “I really appreciate it.”

Katie bushes, her pale cheeks going red. She fiddles with her hearing aid and smiles. “It’s not a problem. I was glad to help.”

“I was wondering about something,” I say, running my hand across the soft leather of my bag. “Why did you get a pass for me but one for yourself? You’re autistic too, so you could’ve got a pass too.”

“The thing is, I don’t really need one,” Katie says. “My senses are more hyposensitive than normal, so I don’t get overloaded very easily. Whereas you seem to be hypersensitive, making it really easy for you to go into sensory overload. Does that make sense?”

I nod. I didn’t know other autistic people have hyposensitive senses. Although it does make sense.

“I see,” I say.

I am about to say something else, but then a car honks its horn and I flinch.

“It’s my mum,” Katie says, jumping to her feet and grabbing her bag. She waves, grinning. “See you on Monday, Allura!”

I smile and wave back. “Bye.”

And I watch my only friend get into the car with her mother and drive away. And I look at my pass and turn it over and over in my hands, so glad to have made friends with Katie.

 

3

Papa finally appears at 4:41pm, far later than he has picked me up the last four days. Katie left six minutes ago and I started to feel a bit… vulnerable sitting on the campus alone; after all, I’m not exactly popular with some of the horrible girls. So when Papa pulls the car to a stop, I grab my bag and literally jump into my usual seat.

“Are you okay, love?” Papa says, obviously a bit shocked.

I smile. “Yes, Papa. I was just lonely from sitting there alone. Katie left six minutes ago.”

“I see,” he says, and we drive away again.

As usual for me, I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest. I think about Katie and find myself smiling.

“So, how’s your friendship with Katie going?” Papa asks.

“Quite well, I think,” I say without opening my eyes. “I think she’s my best friend now. I know I’ve never had a friend before, but I made friends with a boy called Hunk too and so I know my friendships with them both are pretty much the same, although I’m a bit closer with Katie.” I trail off. “Did that make any sense?”

Papa chuckles. “Sort of, love.”

We spend the rest of the journey in silence, but it is not an awkward silence. I only open my eyes when we pull up on the driveway, knowing we are home. Picking up my bag, I open the car door, but when I don’t hear Papa doing the same, I turn back around and look at him.

“Why aren’t you getting out, Papa?”

His hand hovers over the hand break, his fingers trembling the way they always do. “Of course, I forgot to tell you!” Papa lightly smacks his hand against his forehead.

“Tell me what?”

“I’ve got to pick up Lance from school, love.” Papa shakes his head slightly. “He’s got a detention. Honestly, a detention on only the – what is it? – the fifth day of school!”

This doesn’t sound like Lance. I mean, he is not exactly an A* student, but at the same time he is usually well behaved. If my memory is correct, which I am sure it is, Lance has never had a detention. Before today.

“What did he do?” I ask. Maybe someone was mean to Lance, and Lance hit him in self defence. The injustice of this scenario is enough to make my head ache. I breathe slowly and click my fingers, but it doesn’t calm me down.

“They didn’t say – but I’ll ask him, don’t you worry,” Papa looks down at the hand break, and says, “Do you want to come with me? Or do you want to get on with your homework?”

“I’ll stay here,” I get out of the car and head towards the front door. As I unlock it, Papa drives past and goes down the road, waving at me with his free hand.

I enter the house. It is very cool compared to the early autumn heat outside, and very quiet. I kick off my shoes and place them in their usual place on the shoe rack, and place my school bag on the bottom step of the staircase. But as I do, I hear something. A faint, irregular thumping noise emanates from the living room. Curious, I enter the living room to investigate. What I see makes me gasp.

Dad is lying on his front on the floor. He must have fallen over. His muscles spasm and his limbs jerk. There is a large dark patch on the crotch of his pyjama trousers, as if he has wet himself. He must be having a seizure. But he doesn’t have epilepsy. I know what I should do, how to help him, but my legs won’t move. I’m frozen.

My heart pounds, my head hurts, and my stomach churns with nausea. I open my mouth to scream, but instead, I vomit down my shirt, and stumble into the doorframe.

My shoulder bangs against the doorframe, but I don’t feel it. Yet at the same time, when I grab the telephone, the plastic casing is so cold it sends a painful tingle up my arm. I manage to dial 999, but then drop the phone, rubbing my tingling fingers.

I’m not sure what happens next. My knees thump into the linoleum floor. And then the voice of the person at the other end of the line is suddenly very loud. And then all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears. And then I can’t hear anything at all...

 

4

Somehow, I’m on my feet, running across the hallway and out of the front door. My ears are ringing, and the vision in my left eye is blurred, but I can’t stop.

Something dribbles down my face, but I don’t think I’m crying.

“Are you alright love?” A female voice says, but it echoes and distorts as I try to understand it.

I don’t respond. I don’t know how to.

I think I’m having a meltdown.

Another voice says, “Bloody hell! She’s bleeding.” If he is talking about me that would explain what the liquid running down my cheek is. But he might be talking about someone else. I’m not sure of anything now.

Then that same voice says, “Are you okay?” But then something touches my arm, and I scream, flinching away from them.

I run on. My chest burns, like my lungs do not want to expand. My feet ache with the force of them slapping down onto the concrete, but it doesn’t hurt, even when what must be glass pierces the sole of my foot.

I stumble and draw to a stop, trying to stop myself falling. Every part of my body aches, and I must now be crying, because my nose is blocked up the way it does when I cry. A car horn honks and somebody yells, “What the hell are you doing? Stupid kid!” This scares me, so I breathe deeply and carry on.

Black shapes cloud the edges of my vision, but all I can see, hear or think is that Dad is ill, really ill and he might die and he is so stupid for not seeing a doctor and why didn’t I try harder to make him go and –

My foot catches on something hard and rough, and then my hands slam into the concrete, bending my fingers back. I scream, but the volume at which I do isn’t clear. My body follows, the force crushing my hands, and my face hits the ground. I hear the crunch of broken glass. Although it hurts badly, I cannot move, and, strangely, the cool concrete feels nice against my flushed, grazed skin.

The pain begins to bring me back into my senses. I count and breathe slowly and deeply, only to wince as this pulls sensitive muscles in my chest – my intercostals muscles. These are in between my ribs and aid the act of inhaling and exhaling air. But when they are damaged, it makes breathing difficult and painful. Which is what is happening to me right now.

Instead, I take regular, shallow breathes, and my pulse rate drops enough for me to no longer hear it beating in my ears. I manage to roll onto my back, but I the sky appears like the image inside a kaleidoscope, all cracked and distorted. And this is only in my right eye – my left will not open.

I raise my hand to my face, my fingers trembling. My little finger has a two centimetre long gash between the first and second knuckles, which bleeds profusely, blood running down my hand and dripping onto my face. The palm of my hand is grazed, in some places full of dirt and gravel.

I find the right lens of my glasses cracked, with the frame hanging lopsidedly from my ear. All they are doing is making me disorientated, so I take off my broken glasses and stuff them into my pocket. Now everything is a little hazy, but much clearer than before.

When my filthy fingers touch my eyelid, I find my eyelashes stuck together with congealed blood. My fingers trail higher, and find a small gash above my eye. They come back coated red.

With my open eye, I can see people coming over to me, crowding around where I am laying on the concrete, looking at me, chatting to each other. One woman crouches down beside me, getting far too close for my liking.

“Do you need help, dear? What’s your name?” She says, but then she reaches out and touches my arm, sending a shooting pain down my arm and making my fingers tingle. I slap her hand away, struggling to my feet. But when I stand on my left foot, a searing pain shoots up my leg, and I scream.

“What’s wrong?”

Ignoring the woman’s concerned words, I grab my foot and turn my leg, so I can see the sole of my foot. My black sock has worn through over the ball of my foot and my heel, and a small, but sharp, shard of glass protrudes from my heel, blood leaking from around it. Although I know I should never do this, I grit my teeth and pull the glass from my foot.

Someone gasps, and says, “Holy shit! Should I call an ambulance?”

Now when I stand up, the agonising pain has been replaced with a dull sting, and I hurriedly limp off, desperate to get away from those people and to go to the hospital. The ambulance must have arrived by now.

But I face a problem: I have no idea where I am. Despite the pain it causes, I click my fingers and stare around my, hoping that I don’t start panicking again. I rub my forehead, smearing blood everywhere, and then look down at my feet. And that’s when I see it.

There are bloody footprints on the pavement, creating a trail for me to follow. I do so, not really sure where I am going, or what I am doing. Only one though remains strong in my mind – is Dad okay?

I hear the woman speaking and she says, “Can I have the ambulance service, please? And the police ... I think she might be a danger to herself.” I realise that she is talking about me, and begin to run as fast as I can, gritting my teeth and breathing deeply to try and cope with the pain.

I don’t mind the ambulance part, but I don’t want the police to come. They might arrest me, lock me up in a cell like they did when I knocked that woman out during a meeting gone wrong with Dr David. She didn’t press charges, but this time I might end up in prison. The police cell was scary enough, but I couldn’t cope with prison.

I know this is stupid, and that they won’t arrest me, but I can’t seem to think rationally. This is scary, because if I don’t have a rational mind, what else do I have?

I am only faintly aware that I have stopped walking, too absorbed in thought to give it my full attention. All I know is that I can’t walk any more: it is causing me too much pain. I rub my forehead again, my head really starting to hurt, partly from hitting it on the pavement, but mainly from being alone, in a place I do not recognised, with a broken watch so I cannot tell the time.

A small sob escapes my throat, and I am soon crying, tears leaking from my good eye. My knees buckle, and I stumble forwards, off of the kerb. I know I am in the road, but that doesn’t stop me falling to the concrete. I curl up into the foetal position, cradling my aching head with my sore, bloody hands. My body rocks from side to side, the image of Dad’s body on the floor, his muscles jerking with such violent spasms his whole body moves, playing over and over in my head like a malfunctioning video. My eye is open, but this is all I can see.

A hideous squeal that hurts my teeth suddenly invades my ears, forcing me to cover them with my shaking hands. But then I remove them when I hear a voice.

“Allura?” Papa says, his voice sounding happy as well as thick with tears. Indeed, when I look at his face for a second, I see tears dribbling down his cheeks, but he is still smiling. “Thank God! We’ve been looking everywhere for you. What happened?”

I don’t know how to explain it. “D-dad had a seiz - ”

“I know, love,” Papa says, “He was still fitting when we got home. The paramedics were already there. Did you call the ambulance?”

“Yes,” I say. “But I got really scared and I fell over and then I started running and everything was too loud and then I tripped and hit my head and my finger got cut open and - ”

“Ssh,” Papa holds out his hand. I reach out and grasp it. Although this makes his hand bloody, Papa doesn’t complain or let go. And I am glad, because this simple act of compassion is enough to stop me feeling so terrified.

After a few minutes – I have no idea of the exact time, because I haven’t got a functioning watch anymore and am too stressed out to count the seconds accurately – I stand up, having to lean heavily on the car to stop my legs giving way. I am so exhausted.

I clamber into the car, sitting in my usual seat. Lance is sat beside me, and I know he is looking at me. After a few seconds, he says, “Are you alright, Allura?”

I shrug my shoulders, immediately regretting it as both my arms ache. “Where’s Dad?”

Papa starts the car, and then says, “He should be at the hospital by now. Which is where we’re going now.”

As we make the journey to the hospital, I manage to prise my eyelids open, wiping the congealed blood on my filthy, ripped trousers. My vision is still blurry, and I have to wipe my eye with the cuff of my cardigan before I get my vision back to normal. I now know I have just had a meltdown, the worst one I’ve had in years.

Once this is done, I close my eyes and lean back into the headrest. But all I see is Dad having a seizure over and over again, so my eyes snap open. Instead, I watch the clock on the dashboard, counting the minutes until I can see Dad again. I only hope that it isn’t too late.

 

5

We arrive at the hospital at 5:20pm, and Papa parks in the one remaining disabled space. Once Papa has grasped his walking stick with an unmistakable tremor in his hand, we walk the short distance from the car to the building, Papa and I limping. No one speaks. The automatic doors open once we activate its sensors, and we enter the accident and emergency department.

The room is large and spacious, with four rows of seats and a desk to my left. A set of double doors is opposite, and another, smaller doorway at the far end leads to another room. My vision is too blurred for me to read the door sign, but when a woman carrying a crying baby goes through the doorway, I presume it is the paediatric waiting room.

Papa approaches the woman behind the desk. She is talking on a telephone, but, once she has put the phone down, she turns to Papa and says, “Hello, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I need to find my partner who arrived a while ago, but first my daughter - ” Papa steps sideways so the woman can see me. “- medical treatment.”

“No, I don’t.” I say. “I want to see Dad.” I mean, I know I am bleeding, but that isn’t life threatening. Dad might be dying.

Papa ignores me, telling the woman my full name and date of birth, and then the same for Dad. The woman types on her keyboard, and then says, “Ah, yes. Alfor was brought in by ambulance at 5:05pm. He is awaiting a brain scan.”

“That’s great,” Papa says, smiling, “Thank you.”

Papa tells me to stay in the waiting room, but I refuse, and follow him and Lance through the double doors. It takes us approximately one minute to locate Dad’s cubical, surrounded on three sides by retractable blue curtains.

Dad is lying on the bed, a nurse moving his limp and likely very heavy body into the recovery position. There is a large bruise forming on his forehead, and an oxygen mask is strapped to his face. I have to strain my eyes, but when I look closer, there is bloody saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, Al...” Papa says. He walks towards Dad, but the nurse looks up, and comes over.

He puts his hand on Papa’s shoulder, stopping him. “Sorry, Sir, it’s family only.”

“B-but we are family,” Papa says, “Ant’s my partner and these are our children.”

“I see,” The nurse’s face matches the expression I saw on the face of the homophobic man we met on the train. “Well, the kids can see him, but not you, I’m afraid.”

Papa looks at Lance, then me, and then the nurse. “But...but that’s not fair. I need to see him.”

“Papa’s right,” I say. I have to say something – I hate it when people are horrible to my parents. “Why should Lance and I be allowed to see Dad when Papa can’t? I mean, I’m biologically related to him but Lance isn’t, so why don’t you ban him as well?”

The nurse hesitates, but then says, “That’s...different.”

“Is it?” Lance adds, his voice shaking. “Or are you just being homophobic?” He doesn’t give the nurse time to answer. “You know, I am so SICK of this!”

“Lance!” Papa says, sounding as shocked as I feel at this sudden outburst.

“Why does it matter if they’re not married? Why does it matter that they’re gay? It’s pathetic and barbaric – this is 2001 for God’s sake!”

The nurse backs away, not looking away from Lance as he grips Dad’s wrist to take his pulse. He doesn’t say anything, and I see him swallow hard.

“What is going on here?” Another nurse appears behind us. She has very red cheeks. “You do realise that these people are ill and injured?”

Lance is quick to argue his case, with a much quieter voice this time. “He won’t let my Papa see my Dad, and it’s not fair.”

“That’s not strictly true - ” The male nurse begins, but Lance cuts him off.

“Yes it is!” He hisses.

Papa turns to the female nurse. “I’m sorry about my son’s behaviour, but he’s angry. And so am I, because this isn’t fair.”

The female nurse nods. “I know. And I agree with you.”

“You do?” Papa says, a smile appearing on his pale face.

“Really?” Lance says in the same tone of voice.

“Yes,” The female nurse approaches her male co-worker. “I’ll take over here. And you’re lucky these people didn’t report you.”

“But...” The male nurse starts, but then trails off. He leaves the cubical, and heads off down the corridor.

“I’m sorry about that,” The female nurse says, “You’re free to visit him.”

“Thank you so much,” Papa’s voice is thick.

I don’t know what to say - I am just so amazed that somebody stood up for my family, acknowledging that another person’s homophobic behaviour is unjust. It’s a brilliant feeling.

This feeling quickly dissolves as I follow after Papa and Lance towards the bed inside the cubical. Papa reaches out and touches Dad’s arm, gripping the sleeve of Dad’s brown dressing gown. Lance touches the bruise on Dad’s forehead, but then withdraws his hand as though the bruise is burning hot. The nurse takes Dad’s pulse. And I stand very still, listening to Dad’s heavy breathing and the hiss of the oxygen mask.

Papa takes a deep, shuddering breath. “How long until he has his scan?” He asks the nurse.

The nurse says, “We’re waiting for a CT scanner to become available – they’re all busy at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine,” Papa says, but his voice shakes and his grip on Dad tightens.

Behind him, Lance sits on one of the two orange chairs, letting out a long, slow sigh. I want to sit down, but I get an urge to take Dad’s hand. But when pick up Dad’s limp hand, I smear it with blood. It is such a stark contrast to his pale skin that I jump, dropping his hand. It thumps back onto the bed, and I hasten to sit beside Lance, wiping my bloody hand on my trousers again.

Lance looks at me, but, luckily, doesn’t ask me why I did that. I don’t know why myself.

I manage to count the time that passes as we wait for Dad’s CT scan. But after six minutes and twelve seconds, I lose count, because Papa cries out, and I jump, my heart racing.

“Al!” Papa leans over Dad, shaking his arm. I stand up, and have a closer look. Dad’s eyes are half open, his eyelids flickering. His forehead creases, and he groans.

The nurse comes back into the cubical, and leans down beside Dad, resting a hand on his back. “How do you feel?”

I cannot be the only one who finds this question both redundant and idiotic. Dad has had a serious seizure of unknown cause, and hit his head so hard a bruise is forming. I don’t think he is going to say that he’s fine.

Dad says something, but his voice is muffled by the mask, and I don’t hear him. The nurse helps Dad pull the mask down, freeing his mouth so he can speak audibly. But this exposes something that frightens me: one corner of Dad’s mouth is drooping, like the people in the public information films they show on the television about stroke awareness. I have no idea what has caused this in my Dad and, to be truthful, I am so scared that I hide behind Papa’s back so I can no longer see Dad’s lopsided face.

“H’ve a hea-headache,” Dad’s voice is slow and slurred, and he cannot hide the obvious stammer. “W-where’s-s m’ family?”

“We’re all here, love,” Papa says, squeezing Dad’s arm. With help from the nurse, Papa eases Dad onto his back, propping him up into a sitting position.

Dad smiles his scarily lopsided grin, and I have to force myself to look at his face. “T-thank...you.”

Dad looks at Lance and I, and his drooping eyes open wide for a few seconds. “Y’’re b-bleedin’, ‘Lura.”

“I know,” I say, “but I’m fine.” Although almost every part of my body aches, I honestly am fine – I’m more worried about Dad than some lacerations and contustions[1].

Dad must not believe me, because he says, “Y’n-need t’see a do-doctor.”

“No I don’t,” I’m starting to feel like no one is listening to me.

“You do, love,” Papa adds, holding out a hand. I don’t take it.

The nurse turns away from Dad, and says to me, “You might as well, dear. When your dad gets to have his scan, you won’t be able to come with him, and that’ll probably take a while.”

I sigh, and rub my forehead, and blood smears over my hand. Maybe I do need medical treatment. I get to my feet, and the room spins.

“Allura?” Papa says, his voice more high pitched than usual.

I stumble sideways, clinging to the bed to keep myself upright. The floor rocks beneath my feet, and it takes a lot of effort to not fall to the floor.

“She’s fainting,” The nurse’s voice wavers and echoes in my ears. “Lie down on the floor and raise your legs.”

I take several deep, slow breathes, and the spinning ceases. I must have lost more blood than I thought. “I’m fine now.”

“Come on, love,” Papa says, letting go of Dad and holding out his hand again. “Dad’ll still be here when we get back.”

I wipe more blood on my trousers, and decide to give in. Because if I don’t go quietly, I know it won’t take long before Papa literally drags me, kicking and screaming, to get treatment. So I take one last look at Dad, and then follow after Papa, take his sweaty hand in my own, and let him lead me back into the waiting room, where a nurse is calling my name.

Papa and I approach her, and she smiles. “Would you like to come this way?” And then she says to Papa, “Are you her father?”

“Yes,” He smiles and says it calmly, but his teeth are gritted.

The nurse leads us back out of the waiting room, and into a vacant cubical that happens to be opposite Dad’s. He and Lance wave at us. I jump up onto the bed, and swing my legs round so I can lay back. The paper crinkles beneath me as I fidget, trying to get comfortable.

The nurse draws the curtain and then says, “I need to check your pulse. Is that okay?”

“Will you touch me?” I say.

The nurse looks to Papa, who adds, “She is autistic and her sense of touch is very sensitive, so she doesn’t like being touched.”

Then the nurse turns back to me. “I’m afraid so.”

“Then no,” I fold my arms across my chest. I’m already stressed enough, without adding physical contact into the bargain. I decide to do it myself, pressing my fingers against the side of my neck. “It’s no faster or slower than usual. Estimated BPM[2]: ninety. No palpitations.”

The nurse laughs. “Do you by any chance want to be a doctor?”

“No,” I shake my head, regretting it as the cubical spins. I raise my hand and rub my forehead until it passes.

“Well... can I see your injuries, please?” She asks. “Would you prefer it if your dad left the room?”

“He’s my Papa, not my Dad,” I say, hating how I always have to explain this to people. “And, no – I want him to stay.”

The nurse breathes in deeply. “Alright, that’s fine.”

“Well,” I begin. “I had a shard of glass protruding from the heel of my right foot; I removed it, but it is bleeding. When I tripped and fell, I landed on my hands – their palms are grazed, and my little finger on my right hand –” I hold up my hands and show the nurse the injuries I am describing. “--is cut. Earlier, I hit my head and cut my forehead, which has bled so much my eyelashes have stuck together. And when I tripped, my face smacked into the pavement, breaking my glasses and cutting my forehead again.”

The nurse does what I know is called a double take. She looks at Papa, before turning back to me.

She says, “Where are your glasses now?”

I find it odd that she chooses that part of my account to ask questions on. I thought nurses were supposed to care about health, not appearance.

But I still pull my broken glasses out of my pocket. “Here they are.”

The nurse takes my glasses, and turns them over in her hands. The frames and cracked lenses are splattered with blood; I hear several shards of glass fall out and clink against the linoleum floor. She studies my glasses for over sixty seconds, and then places them on the table beside the bed.

“A doctor should be along in a minute,” She says, leaving Papa and I alone in the cubical. For the few seconds when the curtain is open, I see that Dad and Lance are no longer in Dad’s cubical.

Papa sits down in one of the two chairs, and crosses one leg over the other. He picks up my glasses, looking at them as the nurse did. “Allura, I don’t think the nurse actually meant a minute – it was a figure of speech.”

I stop counting, and sigh. I hate figures of speech, but, even more, I hate that I take them all literally.

“Allura?” Papa says.

But then he hesitates, tapping a tune with the glasses frame on the metal part of his walking stick. After a few seconds of deep thought, I identify the tune as the theme music from the 1970s TV series _The Goodies._ It is one of Dad’s (and my) favourite television programmes, even though Papa himself considers it to be dated and didn’t even really like it at the time (he preferred _Monty Python’s Flying Circus_ ), and I wonder why he would choose to tap a tune he doesn’t even like very much.

“Were you...”He trials off, as though he doesn’t know what to say. “What did you think when you found Dad?”

Luckily, (because I have no idea how to respond) I don’t have time to answer him, because the doctor enters the cubical. She has dark hair fastened in a bun, and presses a button on her pager.

“Hello,” She grins, speaking to me in a slow, monotone voice, as though I am a child. She has only said one word, and I already hate her. “You must be Allura.”

“And you must be the doctor who thinks their autistic patients are idiots.” Papa says under his breath, but loud enough for both I and the doctor to hear. “My daughter is sixteen years old. Please don’t patronise her.”

“I-I apologise,” The doctor stammers, obviously realising her error. She takes a deep breath. “I’m here to see if you need stitches, and to do them if necessary. Can I have a look at your cuts?”

“Only if you don’t touch me,” I bend my knees and draw my legs up towards my body, hugging my knees to my chest. My right foot leaves a bloody streak on the paper.

“Allura, love,” Papa holds out his hand, and this time I take it, “I don’t think you have a choice. Try to be brave for me.” He squeezes my hand, squashing the cut on my finger, and I wince.

The doctor rubs her hands together, her latex-free gloves squeaking. It is a hideous noise that hurts my teeth. “I promise to be quick, and I’ll tell you when I’m going to touch you.”

I don’t want her to, but I don’t see what choice I have. “Very well.”

I grit my teeth, and let the doctor see my injured foot.

She makes a hissing noise. “How did you do that? It looks painful.”

“I trod on glass,” I say. The doctor shakes her head, and unwraps an antiseptic wipe.

“I’m going to wipe your foot with antiseptic now. Is that okay?”

It isn’t. It’s the last thing I want. But I still let her do it. And I immediately regret it. The pain is overwhelming – the antiseptic stings and the feel of her hands on my skin is nauseating – and I have to bite down on my hand to stop myself screaming. Papa reaches for my free hand and grips it, but I squeeze his hand so hard that he winces.

“There,” The doctor says, dropping the blood soaked wipe in the biohazard bin, “now the cut’s nice and clean.”

“Does – does she need stitches?” Papa asks. His fingers are turning blue, so I release my grip. He rubs his fingers, and the circulation gradually returns.

“I’m afraid so, yes,” The doctor says, “the gash is far too deep to heal without stitches.”

I groan – this is going to hurt even more. To give her easier access to the cut, I roll onto my stomach, burying my face into the crumbled-paper-covered bed. Which turns out to be a good thing, because when she starts stitching up the gash, it means that she cannot see my tears. My ears start ringing, and I lose track of the amount of time that passes. All that I know is that the few minutes – or seconds, or hours; I cannot tell – that the doctor takes to stitch the cut pass more slowly that I could have thought possible.

When the sharp, stabbing pain ceases, I am left with a dull, throbbing ache in my foot. I roll onto my back, and see the needle that has just been used to sew my foot up – it is very fine, so why did it hurt so much?

And this is when I realise that I am going to have to go through this three more times. I groan.

 

6

Ten minutes and eighteen stitches later, the ordeal is over, but now I feel sore and achey, the skin around my newly stitched cuts tight and overstretched. Pleased, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed – but then the doctor speaks so suddenly that she makes me jump.

“Don’t put weight on that foot!” She says, pulling off her disposable gloves. “You’ll rupture your stitches.”

“So... how will she walk?” Papa asks.

The doctor explains that a nurse will bring me a pair of crutches in a few minutes, and she leaves Papa and I alone in the cubical.

Papa looks at me for approximately thirteen seconds, and then says, “How do you feel, love?”

This confuses me – he could mean several different things. “In what way, Papa?”

He sighs. “Never mind.”

We sit in silence until a new nurse enters the room. She is wearing red lipstick (and, for some reason, reminds me of the awful, campy comedy films of the 1960s like all of the _Carry On_ films), and is carrying a pair of elbow crutches, the handles covered in clear plastic wrapping. The nurse asks me to stand on my good foot and measures me. Once she knows my height – 171cm – she adjusts the crutches accordingly, and asks me to try them out.

The solid handles dig painfully into my grazed palms, and I wobble precariously.

“Careful!” Papa and the nurse say simultaneously.

I move the crutches forwards, and then attempt to swing my legs alongside them, but my arms pop out of the cuffs, and I stumble forwards, the crutches clattering to the floor. The nurse grabs my arms to steady me and I scream. She lets go of my arms, and I lean on the bed to regain my balance.

Once the nurse is satisfied that I will not fall over, she tells Papa that we can leave, and exits the cubical. We follow after her, but then stop as I see Dad and Lance are back in the cubical. Dad is unconscious, his eyes closed.

Papa hurries across the corridor, with me following behind him. This is the first time ever that Papa has been faster than me. But I do not think that this pleases either of us.

“What’s wrong with him, Lance?” He says, leaning over Dad and looking at his face. “Did he have another fit?”

“No, no,” Lance shakes his head, a small smile on his face, obviously trying to reassure Papa. “He’s fine, Papa. They had to sedate him when he had his scan ‘cause he panicked, so he’s quite sleepy now.” Of course, I forgot that Dad has claustrophobia. I do hate the way my memory seems to fail during and after my meltdowns.

Lance continues, “And the scanner man -”

“The radiographer,” I correct him.

“And the radiographer,” Lance continues, nodding his head in my direction, “said it’ll take a little while to get his results.”

“How long is ‘a little while’?” I ask, using air quotes like Katie did on the day we first met. It seems strange that I met Katie on Monday, yet I am at the hospital now, on Friday. It has only been five days, but it seems like it was ages ago. If I liked using clichés like some people, I might say that it seemed like a lifetime ago, but I won’t, because clichés are crappy.

“I don’t know – he didn’t specify.” This annoys me – I like it when people are very specific – but I am too tired to complain.

“That’s good, I suppose,” Papa says. He sees me swaying unsteadily, and ads, “Sit down, love, before you fall down.”

I ease myself into one of the orange chairs, placing the crutches on the floor beside me.

“How did it go, Allura?” Lance says, turning to look at me.

“All right,” I say truthfully, “I had eighteen stitches and have to use these crutches until my foot heals.”

“That must have been painf-” Lance stops talking as a low groan comes from Dad. I glance at Dad’s face – he is opening his eyes, but his eyelids are only half open, and one droops down further than the other. Once again, I am reminded of the stroke PIFs[3], and I can’t help but remember how I am sure I’ve seen Dad looking like this before.

He yawns, and groans again. Papa takes his hand in his own, but Dad’s fingers hang limply in Papa’s grip. However, he reaches across his body and tightly grips Papa’s hand with his other hand, which doesn’t seem impaired in the slightest.

“Ssssssso t-tired.” Dad slurs, like he is drunk. But we all know that he is sober. He turns his head on the pillow, and looks at Lance and I. “G-good g-g-girl, A…llur-ra.”

I have no idea what he means, but then Papa says, “Yes, she is a good girl for going to get her cuts stitched up.” Now I understand.

Lance still has his rucksack on his back. He wriggles around in his seat and eventually removes his bag, resting it on his lap. He opens his bag takes out his already scuffed and graffitied student planner, and flips through it.

“Do you have any homework?” Papa asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. That seems to me to be a strange question to ask right now, but neither Lance nor Dad mention it. It must just be me.

Lance shakes his head. “Nah, I did it while I was in detention.”

I remember something from earlier this afternoon. “You never told me why Lance had detention, Papa.”

Papa opens his mouth to say something, but Dad cuts him off, “W-wait a...min-nute,” he tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but doesn’t manage it and falls back onto the pillow.

“Careful!” Papa says.

Dad ignores him, “Di-did...did y-you sa-ay...you h-had det-tention-n?”

“Yeah,” Lance looks down at his school bag, “I did... And I know it’s the first week of my GCSEs, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“So what happened?” I ask, rubbing the five stitches in my little finger.

Lance takes a deep breath, “My mate Richie set of the fire bell – ‘as a joke’– ” He uses air quotes. “— and when the teachers found out, he said I dared him to do it, which I didn’t. And we both got an after school detention for it. It’s not fair!”

Papa puts his left arm around Lance’s shoulders, and Dad holds out his floppy hand, which Lance grips tightly.

“I – I... love a...f-f-fair tr-trial.” Dad says. Papa chuckles, but without a smile on his face. This totally confuses me – I thought you are meant to be happy when you laugh. He looks at me, and adds, “Sarcasm, Allura.”

I hate sarcasm; I never understand it and end up looking like an idiot. Which I am NOT. Papa, Dad and Lance try not to use it around me without telling me what they mean first for this reason, but they still sometimes do it.

I realise that, with all this talking, I have forgotten to count, and have no approximate idea of what the time is. This is such a worrying thought that I have to ask Papa.

“It’s half six, love,” Papa says. I’m surprised to find that we have been in the hospital for an hour and ten minutes, because it feels like I have been trapped here for over six hours.

Papa must be confused as to why I asked him, because he adds, “Where’s your watch?”

“It broke,” I unbuckle the strap on my watch, and hand it to Papa. The glass has shattered, and the hands have all fallen out, leaving me with a blank watch face. Which is not helpful when it comes to telling the time.

Papa looks closely at the broken watch, and then answers the question in my mind before I have a chance to say it. “Of course you can borrow mine, love.” He unfastens his own watch, and hands it to me.

“That’s freaky,” Lance looks at Papa, and then at the watch in my hands. “Are you psychic or something?”

Papa laughs, and this time he smiles. “No, I just know how to read all of your faces like books.”

As Lance and Papa talk about Papa’s unrealistic ability, I buckle the thick, black leather strap and study the face of Papa’s watch. It is actually 6:33pm, so Papa must have approximated the time when he told me it. I’m much calmer now I know the exact time, but my underlying anxiety about Dad will not go away as easily.

 

7

By 8:33pm, two whole hours since I last checked the time, we still do not know the results of Dad’s scan. As his sedative wears off, Dad gets more and more alert and talkative, but the rest of us are deteriorating. Papa looks like he will fall asleep if he closes his eyes, Lance’s stomach keeps rumbling so loudly I can hear it, and I am so behind in my daily routine that I feel the familiar nervousness that comes with change to my plans.

Although he is more awake, Dad’s speech will not return to normal; he continues to slur and stammer. I try not to think about what may be the cause of his speech problems, lest I have another major meltdown. I don’t think I can manage two in the same day.

Lance sighs, and stretches his arm muscles, most likely the triceps. “I’m starving. Anyone want anything from the vending machines?” He says, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. It clinks loudly, and so must be full of coins.

“No thanks, love,” Papa says, “but I’ll have some water from the cooler.”

“Where is it?”

Papa pushes his hair off of his forehead and rubs the bridge of his nose. “In the waiting room.”

“What about you, Allura?” He doesn’t ask Dad, because he knows he will say that he feels too sick to keep anything down.

I ask for water from the vending machine, because that will be sealed. I don’t want to risk my water being contaminated, which could happen in a communal water cooler. Dr David says that I have severe issues with paranoia. He may be correct.

Lance returns at 8:39pm, carrying a bottle of water, a packet of salt and vinegar flavoured crisps, a bottle of Pepsi Cola and a clear plastic cup.

“Thanks, love,” Papa says, taking a sip of his water.

Lance opens his Pepsi too quickly, and a third of the bottle’s liquid ends up down Lance’s white shirt, making it soggy and brown. “Crap!”

Papa pulls a crumpled tissue out of his pocket and hands it to Lance, who dabs at his wet shirt rather ineffectively.

“Yuck!” Lance moans, his whole body shuddering.

Dad laughs, and Papa smiles. It is good to see Dad laugh – even with his lopsided grin that frightens me – because it has been so long since he seemed happy. But then he screws his eyes up and he stops laughing, rubbing his forehead. Papa sees this too, and he stops smiling. It has been ages since Papa seemed happy too.

The cubical descends into silence, allowing me to hear the other noises in the Accident and Emergency department. People talk, machinery whirrs, the air conditioning and the lights hum. This background noise is very soothing, much like the white noise the radio makes when it is between stations, and I find myself able to breathe a little easier.

At least until a woman screams, “He’s not breathing!”. This completely jolts me out of my calmness, and, when I check Papa’s watch, I see that a lot of time has passed. It is now 8:59pm, and a doctor has just walked into the cubical.

He is approximately six feet tall, and his light brown hair is streaked with grey. He holds a clipboard in his hands, and his fingers are twitching, his fingernails tapping the wooden back of the clipboard.

He introduces himself as Dr Williams, a radiologist. His voice has a slight lisp. “I have looked at the results of your CT scan, Mr Altea –” That’s Dad’s surname. “– and the good news is you did not suffer any bleeding on the brain or skull injuries from your head injury.

Papa lets out a sigh, a smile crossing his face.

“However, I think I have found the reason for your seizures.”

The smile disappears from Papa’s face, getting replaced with a frown. Papa reaches for Dad’s hand; the doctor looks at them both and raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t speak.

“Well, what is it?” Lance asks, his voice shaky.

Dr Williams sighs, and looks at his paperwork, “The scan has detected a mass in the frontal lobe of your brain – the area that controls motor functions. Which explains why you have been experiencing problems controlling your facial muscles.”

Papa’s face has gone pale. He looks like he might vomit.

“W-what is it?” He keeps moving his head so he can look at everyone until his neck clicks, and he winces.

“It’s most likely a tumour –”

Papa covers his face with his hands, and groans, “Oh my God...”

“A tumour!” Lance cries, and then he whispers so quietly that only I hear, “But-but he’ll die.”

Dad doesn’t say anything – he just stares at the closed curtains, not speaking, not moving.

Papa breathes a shuddering breath, and looks at the doctor again. His face is now very flushed. “Can it be treated?”

Dr Williams says, “The tumour is in such a place that it should be able to be removed by surgery—”

“Thank God,” Papa sighs.

“Once it is removed, they’ll perform a biopsy, to find out if it is benign – non-cancerous – or malignant – cancerous. If it’s benign, then Mr Altea should be fine, but a malignant tumour will require him to have extensive radio- or chemotherapy to try to stop the cancer returning.”

“And,” Papa says, his voice very quiet, “would the cancer return?”

Dr Williams shakes his head, “You’d have to ask an oncologist for the exact statistics, but it fairly common, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry that I’ve had to give you such bad news.” He says goodbye, and leaves us alone in the cubical.

But this time, despite our lack of communication, our cubical is not silent. Because as I sit very still on the hard plastic chair, all I can hear is shaky breathing. Papa takes a deep breath, and then begins to cry, his sobs so loud that I have to cover my ears. With my pulse beating in my ears, I watch as Papa rests his face against Dad’s chest, his shoulders shaking.

Dad says nothing, but he moves his arm and rests his floppy hand on Papa’s back. And when Dad finally speaks, I read his lips to find out what he is saying.

He says, “I-I’ll be...a-alright, Co-Coran, I’ll b-b-be al...all right.”

But that’s the problem – how does he know?

 

8

We leave the hospital at 9:35pm, after the doctors are satisfied that Dad’s sedative has worn off. We had to leave information so the hospital can contact Dad’s GP, apparently so he can be referred to a neurologist for further tests or something like that. I’m not sure. I was finding it hard to listen.

The drive back home is quiet: Dad rests his head on the window, Papa drives without speaking to anyone, Lance eats his crisps, and I lean my crutches against my face, liking how cool and smooth the aluminium framing is against my skin.

I open my eyes when Dad speaks, “T-thanks, Coran,” he says quietly.

“For what?” Papa whispers.

I glance sideways at Lance; he smiles, but says nothing.

Dad hesitates for ten seconds and then says, “For...for b-being there... w-when they-they...you know...”

Papa must understand what Dad’s confusing comment means, because he says, “It’s nothing, love.” Dad puts his hand on top of Papa’s, which is gripping the gear stick. Papa’s reflection in the rear view mirror smiles.

At 9:58pm, we arrive at home, and I am so unsteady on my crutches that I am last to come into the house. I hop precariously up the stairs, almost falling over twice, and head for my bedroom.

I get undressed as quickly as I can, throwing my ruined clothes in the bin, and change into my pyjamas. My stomach rumbles, but I feel so sick with nerves that I skip my very late tea and decide to brush my teeth.

It is a shock to see my reflection in the mirror. My face is covered in thick stitches and black and blue bruises, and without my glasses I look completely different, like my eyes are smaller.

Once I am done in the bathroom, I hobble back towards my bedroom door, but stop when I reach the study and see the computer.

I sit down at the desk and switch on the computer. I’m not sure what I am doing – at least until my fingers type ‘brain tumour survival rate’ into the search engine. My vision is too blurry to read it, however, so I zoom the page in until I can clearly see the writing on the screen. This is what I read:

**There is a lack of reliable data for the survival rates in benign brain tumours, but they are usually better in all age groups than malignant tumours.**

**However, in malignant brain tumours, survival rates are lower.**

  * ****40% of people survive one year or more after their diagnosis.****
  * ****20% of people survive five years or more after their diagnosis****
  * ********15% of people survive ten years or more after their diagnosis.********



A droplet of water lands on the G key of the keyboard, and I am shocked to find that it has come from my eye. I’m crying. And I know why. One cannot argue with statistics – mathematics never lies. And it seems that, whether his tumour is malignant or benign, there is a very high chance that Dad will die.

More tears splatter the keyboard, and my tears blur my already hazy vision. My shaky hand fumbles for the shut down button on the hard drive, not wanting to read anymore about how my dad is going to die.

I struggle back across the landing, but I catch my rubber tip of one of my crutches on the skirting board. I lose my balance, and go crashing to the lino. This is enough for me to lose what little self control that I have left; I begin to sob uncontrollably, my eyes screwed up, my head throbbing, my sore hands burning.

“Allura?” Lance’s voice crackles and wavers in my ears. He grabs my hand and rubs the stitches with his finger. This hurts, but that pain helps me realise what is happening to me and where I am and...

“What was that thump?” Papa calls, most likely from the bottom of the stairs.

Lance lets go of my hand; I open my eyes and see him stood at the stop of the staircase. “Allura fell over.”

“Is she alright?” Papa’s voice cracks.

I manage to sit up, rubbing my throbbing hands, “I’m fine.”

I haul myself to my feet, tears still running down my face, I limp into my bedroom. I slid the bolt across and then get into bed.

I wipe my face with the cuff of my pyjama top and grab my book from the sideboard. But even my book cannot seem t distract me from my thoughts – and when I see a photograph of JFK’s head during his autopsy, complete with a huge chunk of his skull missing, I panic, throwing the book across the room. It lands with a thud on the lino, the spin splitting open and the cover creased.

Now all I can see is that photograph, but instead it is Dad who is missing a chunk of his head, and his eyes are open, staring, lifeless and so bloody creepy –

I hear a noise, and take my hands off of my ears. “Allura?” Papa says through my locked door. “I know you might not want to talk, but I think you can still hear me. I . . . I saw what you were looking at on the computer. And I just wanted to say that I know things look bad, but... Look, love, I don’t really know what to tell you. Can-can I come in?” His voice shakes, and I think he might cry.

I consider what he said, and, hopping across the room, unlock my door. I sit back on my bed, leaning against the headboard.

Papa opens the door and comes into the room. He doesn’t speak to me; He leans down and picks my book up. His shaky hands smooth the creased cover flat, and then he places it on the sideboard again.

He sighs, and then sits down on the end of my bed. “I’m not going to tell you Dad will be alright, love, ‘cause I know you won’t believe me. But...but Dad might be one of the lucky ones, he might get better.”

I don’t respond, but let him hold my hand. I know that Papa is trying to reassure me, but the odds really are against Dad. I mean, there is a 60% chance that he will die before this time next year.

Yet, at the same time, I understand what Papa is saying – some people do survive. Maybe Dad will be alright.

But still, I cannot relax. Papa goes to bed at 10:34pm, but I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I am exhausted and most of my body aches, but I cannot sleep.

At 12:23am, I give up, and get out of bed. I limp down the stairs as quietly as I can, and go into the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water and sit at the table, sipping it slowly. My throat still hurts from being sick earlier this afternoon, and the water is very cool and soothing.

My stomach rumbles, and I rifle through the cupboard until I find a packet of salt and vinegar flavoured crisps. I eat the crisps slowly, savouring the sharp, salty taste, and lick my fingers when I have finished.

After I go back to bed and spend another two hours trying to sleep, I get up again, this time taking my sixth form bag back up to my bedroom. I sit at my desk and struggle my way through my homework, although I have to squint so much that my head begins to throb.

I must fall asleep, because I wake up face down on my desk, my worksheet stuck to my forehead with sweat. And it is only 3:46am. It seems like the morning will never come at this rate.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] Cuts and bruises

[2] BPM = Beats Per Minute.

[3] This is short for ‘public information films’. They are always on the TV and warn us about medical things and road safety and things like that. I can’t watch them without getting very anxious and then spending the next week having to sleep with the light on.


	8. 10/09/01

Monday 10th September 2001

1

One of the things that Dr David told me about during one of our many sessions (that seem to be less about my anxiety, which is what I am meant to be seeing him for, and more about me and my life and everything else in general, so we talk about autism a lot, and he always wonders how I know so little about my own disability) was the idea of special interests.

Apparently, most, if not all, autistic people experience what are known as special interests, otherwise known as an intense love of a particular, often obscure subject. You can have more than one, they can last anything from days to years, and they seem to literally take over your life. They are all you can think about, all you read about, and are certainly all you talk about.

When I learned this, I was amazed to learn that there was an explanation for why I get so focused on certain things. Although, I will proudly state that I have never had a fixation on trains, and I never will do (I hate the things; I’m scared of level crossings and they are just TOO LOUD), and I only say that because it is a stereotype that all autistic people like trains. And I don’t like stereotypes.

One that I have had for years is British history – specifically, the history of the British monarchy – which is why I can list the names of all of the monarchs from 1066 to the present day off by heart and so quickly.

I have had others, including:

  * Cranes (this was when I was approximately two years old, so I don’t really remember it that clearly. I just know that Dad has always told me that I was obsessed with cranes when I was a toddler.)
  * Monty Python
  * __Red Dwarf__
  * Astronomy (I wanted to be an astronaut for years)
  * First Aid
  * _The Goodies_



My current special interests seem to be:

  * The assassination of JFK
  * _The Simpsons_
  * British History



It really is a fascinating topic. I wonder what Katie’s special interest is. I should ask her some time.

 

2

Despite my constant insomnia all weekend, I fall asleep in the car on the way to sixth form. I wake up to Papa tapping my hand and calling my name. Yawning heavily, I hobble into the building and make my way towards my tutor room.

I end up breathless, with sweat trickling down my back. I never realised how far away my tutor room was from the front door. I make it at 9:02am, and everyone suddenly seems to care about me —

“What’ve you done to yourself?”

“Are you okay, Allura?”

“That looks painful.”

“Can I have a go on your crutches later?”

— Except Mrs Smith.

“You’re late, Allura,” She says.

I sit down in my seat, laying my crutches on the floor beside my desk. “I’m sorry, but it takes me ages to walk around with my crutches.”

“I’m afraid you’re still late,” Mrs Smith picks up her pen and makes a mark on the register.

I take my timetable out of my bag and study it, squinting again. I really do hope I get a new pair of glasses soon. But I look up when I hear Katie enter the classroom at 9:06am.

“Sorry I’m late,” She gasps. I turn around in my seat and look at her. And the first thing I notice is that Katie has a black eye. I need to find out why.

Mrs Smith sighs, “This really isn’t good enough, Katie. You need to improve your punctuality.”

Katie ducks her head, and says, “Yes, Mrs Smith.”

But when she sits down beside me, Katie says, “What a bloody, stuck up bit— Jesus, Allura! What happened to your face?”

“I fell over,” I say.

Katie stares at me, and then starts giggling.

“What?”

She stops laughing, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just found it funny how you said you fell over so casually, like you do it all the time.”

“I’m not offended,” I smile quickly, “And I do fall over all of the time. I have very bad coordination.” I need to practise my small talk, so I add, “Did you do the biology homework?”

This works; Katie and I have a detailed discussion about our osmosis focused homework, which she did in the afternoon, and I did in the early hours of Saturday morning. I seem to have distracted her from talking about how I got hurt, but then I stand up.

“What’ve you done to your foot?” Katie cries as I slide my arms into the cuffs of my crutches, and lift my injured foot off of the ground.

“I trod on glass,” I say, and then I hobble out of the room and down the corridor, away from her.

“Hey, wait for me,” Katie says, following after me. She catches me after only three seconds, and stands in front of me. “What’s wrong?”

I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I can’t tell her why I ended up treading on the glass, or falling over. I want to confide in someone, but I don’t think I can without crying, and, anyway, I don’t know if Katie is a good enough friend to trust with such private information.

I expect her to start questioning me, but, to my surprise, Katie says, “That’s fine. See you at break.”

For a few seconds, I am pleased that Katie understood me, but then I remember that I have maths. And I groan.

Despite my slow walking speed, when I arrive at my maths classroom, only Mr Allen and Hunk are in the room. They both stare at me as I sit down next to Hunk. Neither of them speak.

“Er, I have my homework, Sir,” I say, holding out the booklet full of my messy handwritten answers.

Mr Allen takes it, and quickly flicks through all six pages. “You know, Allura, you had a week to do this – but well done.”

The calm environment is shattered when the rest of the class arrive – particularly when Kate comes into the room. She sees me and starts shrieking with laughter.

“Look at the spaz – she’s crippled as well as a lesbo.” She has managed to say two things that don’t make sense.

Kate called me a spaz, and I have a horrible feeling that this is going to start off another cruel nickname for my time at this sixth form. And lesbo I believe is short for lesbian, and I have no idea where she got that from.

Hunk whispers, “Ignore her, Allura,” but I have to know what Kate is talking about.

“What do you mean by that, Kate?” I ask, as politely as I can manage, “Because I am not a spaz, nor a cripple, nor a lesbian.”

“God, you’re weird,” Kate says. “And you’re a spaz ‘cause you had a freak-out over nothing, you’re a cripple ‘cause you need crutches—” She bends down and picks up my crutches before I can stop her. As she speaks, I try to grab them, but she holds them just out of my reach. “— and you’re a lesbo ‘cause my mate saw you holding another girl’s hand.”

Ah, now I understand. And her reasoning is so pathetic that I cannot even bother to reply.

Hunk sighs, “Just leave her alone, Kate.”

Kate starts to snap at Hunk, but Mr Allen decides to start the lesson. “Can everyone please sit down and be quiet? And, Kate, give Allura back her crutches.”

Kate sighs and shoves the crutches into my outstretched hands. But she does so with such force that it hurts my bruised hands, and I wince. She chuckles.

Once Kate has left me alone, maths passes very quickly and calmly, and it only seems like a few minutes later that Hunk and I are leaving early for break time.

“Thanks for standing up to her, Hunk.” I say, staring at my feet to make sure I don’t trip.

“You’re welcome. I just really hate people like her.”

At least I am not the only one.

When I reach the canteen, I collapse into the seat I sat in yesterday, placing my crutches on the floor beside me. I sip water and take some painkillers, hoping that they will do something to dull all of my various pains.

Once the painkillers start working, I find my eyes starting to close. I never fall asleep in the daytime, but I’m just so tired . . .

And then I’m in a cemetery, with Papa and Lance, and we’re all stood around an open grave. It’s raining, raindrops splattering the lenses of my glasses and mingling with the tears streaming down my face.

I turn away from the grave, and a headstone looms in front of me. And when I read it, I start screaming.

**Alfor Altea**

**1960 – 2001**

It’s true. He’s dead. And he’s never coming back.

But then something stabs into my arm, and I open my eyes to see Katie standing in front of me.

I take a shuddering breath and sit up straight, wiping tears from my cheeks. Suddenly, everything makes sense. I was dreaming. It wasn’t real. Dad isn’t dead.

“Are you all right?” Katie says, sitting down next to me. “I thought you’d just fallen asleep, but . . . you look awful. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

I rub my eyes, and sigh. I can’t tell her, I just can’t. “No.”

“But, something awful must’ve happened.” She fiddles with her hearing aid; it must be a nervous tick, or maybe a stim of hers. I click my fingers. Why can’t she just shut up? “And I’m sure that you’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

I have never understood that piece of reasoning; it might work for others, but it never has for me. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I get out of my seat, but my legs are so wobbly that I end up dropping back into my chair. “Just so you know,” I say. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Katie rummages through her bag, and then a smell invades my nostrils. She’s eating cheese and onion crisps.

Eventually, Katie screws up the empty packet and speaks to me. “Will you tell me if I tell you why I have a black eye?”

I look up. “Possibly.” I do want to know, after all.

She sighs, and starts biting her fingernails. “I had an accident at home.”

This makes me remember something I saw yesterday. “Did your mother have the same accident, because she had a black eye last week?”

“What?”

Katie’s whole body tenses up, and when I look at her, I see her eyes have widened so much she looks very odd. Her hands start shaking.

I know that this is doing something strange to Katie’s emotions, but I can’t stop. It feels so good to rant at her, like it is helping me release all of my pent up fear and anger from what happened yesterday.

“Are you sure that it was just an accident, or was it an ‘accident’?” I say, using air quotes.

“Shut up, Allura,” she says, her voice very quiet. “Why would you even suggest that?”

“Because I think you’re bloody lying!” I shout.

Katie balls her hands into fists. I think I’ve gone too far.

“Shut up, Allura!” She shouts. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Before I can argue any more, she gets to her feet and rushes out of the canteen, leaving me alone. I look up, breathing slowly, and notice that everyone is looking at me. I wonder how much they have heard.

“What?” I snap. Nobody says anything. I think they might be scared of me. Good. At least that way they all might stop being mean to me.

Shoving my things back into my bag, I hobble my way to the lift and press the button. When the lift gets to the ground floor, the doors open, revealing Hunk. He smiles at me, but I don’t smile back.

“Hi, Allura,” he says, moving his chair out of the lift. “Are you all right?”

“No,” I say.

I hop into the lift and press the button for the first floor. As the doors close, he looks at me strangely, but I don’t know what his expression means.

Once I’ve made it to the library, I manage to pull the huge copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_ off of the shelf and dump it onto the nearest table. I sit down and carefully lay my crutches down on the floor, and open the book. But without my glasses I can barely read the tiny print, and everything hurts too much for me to be able to concentrate.

And then I start thinking about Katie, and I feel a rare feeling of sadness. I feel awful, and it makes me want to cry. I can’t believe I ruined what was turning out to be an actual friendship.

This is why I can’t have friends. Because whenever, if rarely, someone is kind to me, I always manage to ruin it. Katie looked like she really wanted to be my friend yesterday, but I’m certain that she is not ever going to speak to me again.

 

3

Katie avoids me for the rest of the day. I feel like I used to every single day at high school: alienated. Without Katie, I suddenly feel very alone.

I barely notice the names Kate and her sycophants call me in chemistry, and I don’t talk to anyone at all. Sometimes, I just don’t want to speak, and I’m not sure why. All I know is that this is one of those times. I don’t put my hand up at all, and I barely finish my work in time.

When the lesson is over, I hurry out of the building as fast as I can and sit on the bench to wait for Papa. I try not to think about how I sat here on Monday with Katie and talked to her, and I wish I had my glasses so I could distract myself by reading my JFK book. I see Katie looking at me, but I have no idea what the expression on her face means. Sometimes, I wish I was better at reading people’s facial expressions.

At 4:26pm, Papa arrives, and I rush to get into the car before Katie can come over. I put my crutches in Lance’s seat and fasten my seatbelt. Papa turns around in his seat and smiles at me, and I decide not to tell him about what happened at sixth form today. With all of the problems we currently have with Dad, I don’t want to cause him any more stress. Besides, my friendship problems seem trivial when compared to Dad’s brain . . .

I stop myself thinking about it and click my fingers together, even though it hurts to do it now my hands are grazed. “Hello, Papa.”

“Hello, Allura,” He says, still smiling at me. He turns back around and starts the car. “How was your day?”

I hate lying (and I know I am very bad at it) but I still force myself to smile at his reflection in the rear view mirror and say, “Fine, thank you.”

Papa pulls the car out of the parking space, and begins to drive down the narrow road leading to the gates. He has to drive very slowly because of the many cars and people blocking the way, and I hear him groan, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

“Did you get any homework?”

I shake my head, immediately regretting it as it makes my head throb. “No.”

I see his reflection smile. “At least that’s something, eh?”

“How’s Dad?” I ask. I close my eyes as we pick up speed, not wanting to get sensory overload again.

Papa hesitates for quite a long time before he answers, and it makes me wonder if he is trying to think of a lie.

“Papa?”

“Sorry, love, I was just daydreaming,” he says, chuckling. “But, yeah, he’s about the same. We haven’t heard anything from the hospital yet. He’s still got a headache, but he seems to be in a decent mood.”

When Papa and I get home, I find Dad curled up on the sofa bed, watching his video of _Monty Python’s Life of Brian._ I’ve always found it strange that a Christian like Dad would like a film like that, but I don’t have the energy to ask why. I just collapse into the armchair and watch what happens to be one of my all time favourite films, and find myself smiling when I see Dad is smiling too, even though seeing his mouth drooping on one side is still making me feel anxious. It is almost like we’re all pretending that yesterday evening didn’t happen.

Lance gets home just as the ending song (‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’) starts playing, and he immediately starts singing along. Even though I don’t like singing aloud, I join in too, and so does Dad, and we sing so loudly that one of the neighbours bangs on the wall.

But as I sing, I notice something. Papa is crying, covering his face as though he is trying to hide it, but I can see tears dribbling down his cheeks. What has upset him? As Dad and Lance continue to sing, Papa slips out of the room and into the hallway, unnoticed by the other two, but not by me. I don’t like to see people crying, but his behaviour has sufficiently confused me that I hobble into the kitchen and go through to the hallway from the other direction.

Indeed, I find Papa sat on the bottom step of the stairs, crying into his hands. I creep towards him, going over in my head possible suggestions of things I could say to attempt to reassure him, but I can’t think of anything. I just don’t know how to do that.

“Papa?” I approach him from behind, and he jumps.

Papa turns around and sees me leaning against the vertical slats on the banister.

“What is it, Allura?” He asks. He scrubs at his face with a tissue, but the tears keep running down his face.

I move so I am stood in front of him, leaning my back against the wall for balance, and ask, “Why are you crying?”

He smiles and wipes his eyes with the cuffs of his shirt. “I’m not crying, love.”

“Yes you are,” I say. “I can see the tears.”

Papa sighs and looks at his walking stick. “Fine, I’m crying. I just got a bit tearful, that’s all.”

“Why?”

He sighs again. “It was just so nice to see your Dad all happy and smiley. It makes such a change.”

“I know what you mean,” I say, and I drop to one knee. I hold out my hand and say, “I hope things get better, Papa.”

Papa sniffs and takes my hand, smiling weakly. “Thank you, Allura. And I do too.”

I want to tell him about Katie and how we probably aren’t friends any more. But Papa is already so sad and going through so many horrible things that I don’t want to make him worse. So even though I am sad about Katie, I simply hold hands with Papa and hope he feels less sad and everything works out.

And although I know things are never that simple, I really, really, really hope I might be correct.


	9. 11/09/01

Tuesday 11th September 2001

 

1

I wake up at 4:21am, and immediately feel wide awake. This does not make sense, considering that I have barely slept the last few nights, and it makes me want to scream. But I don’t scream, not wanting to wake everyone up, and instead roll over and screw my eyes up.

But despite how hard I try, I can’t sleep. My sore hand and foot and face all hurt (my painkillers I took before bed must have left my system by now), and my brain starts to overwhelm me with thoughts of Dad’s tumour and Dad and Papa’s relationship and whatever Lance might be hiding from us and my almost certainly ruined friendship with Katie and… And I know that I won’t be falling back asleep.

Which means I need to entertain myself for the three hours until everyone else gets up for the morning. I suppose I could go downstairs and watch a video on the TV, but I am very unsteady on the stairs on my crutches and I don’t want to go downstairs alone in case I fall. My usual response would be to read, but I already have such a headache that I can’t bring myself to struggle through a book with no glasses on. And remembering how I broke my glasses makes me sigh.

I wish I had more than one pair of glasses, but I don’t; the ones I broke on Friday were my only pair[1]. And considering how everyone has much more on our minds than broken glasses and we probably can’t afford to get me new ones, it seems like I might be dealing with eye strain for the foreseeable future. I guess I am lucky that my eyesight is still quite good[2], because I would be ‘fucked’ (as Lance likes to say) if I couldn’t read at all without them on. Still, my lack of glasses is another thing that is going wrong in my life, and I suddenly want to cry.

But I don’t, because I have cried far too much lately and crying often sends me into a meltdown and I am still suffering from the meltdown I had on Friday and I don’t want to repeat that experience. I sit up in bed and groan, running my (non-injured) fingers through my hair. I love my hair – it is so long and curly – and running my fingers through it is soothing.

Once I have stopped fighting the urge to cry, I realise that I still need to do something. I can’t just lie here for three hours until it is time to get up. But regardless of what I choose to do, there is something I definitely need to do right now: I need the toilet.

And so I get up, grabbing my crutches and hobbling out of my bedroom. The palms of my hands are getting calluses from holding the handles of the crutches, and I wince. I take a slow walk across the landing and go to the toilet, but I notice something on my return journey across the landing: Dad and Papa’s bedroom door is shut.

Now, Dad and Papa usually have their bedroom door ajar when they are in bed. If the door is shut, I have concluded that there are two different reasons why this might happen. They are:

  1. Dad and Papa are having sex. I discovered this one when I was ten[3] and none of us care to repeat the experience. This one isn’t as important these days due to Dad’s declining health, but it is still important to consider.
  2. Dad and Papa are having a private conversation and shut the door so we can’t easily hear them.



Either way, I know that I can’t just walk into the room without knocking. So I go to walk past their closed door, but then I hear something that makes me stop.

“…complications?”

It is Dad, talking in the slightly slurred, stutter voice he has been stuck with lately. And he sounds worried. What are they talking about?

“I know, I know, I was worrying about that too,” Papa says, and I think he might be crying. “But we can’t think about that. It’s so unlikely it’s not worth thinking about. Come on, love, don’t cry.”

And now there are more noises, and I know Dad is crying. I start to flap my hands, my eyes stinging with suppressed tears, hating to hear my parents crying. I know what they are talking about; yesterday, after his film ended and Dad stopped singing along with the catchy song, he told Lance and I about a letter he received.

It was a letter from a neurologist at our nearest hospital, telling Dad to come for a meeting to discuss the surgery he needs to have to remove the tumour and do a biopsy on it. Because they are worried about him possibly having… cancer, Dad is being considered a priority case. And so, even though it is very unusual for someone using the NHS, Dad’s appointment was for the next day: in other words, today, Tuesday 11th September.

So that is it; Dad is worried about his appointment, and Papa is unsuccessfully trying to reassure him. I know I could be useful in telling them the statistics for surgery complications, but I also have no idea how to comfort people. So I go back to my bedroom and climb back into bed and try not to think about it, curling up under the blankets.

Somehow, I fall asleep again, and I dream about Dad and Papa and how their relationship used to be before all of this happened.

 

2

It is pointless to talk about sixth form. It was horrible, just I expected. The following things were wrong about sixth form today:

  1. Katie wouldn’t talk to me. When she saw me, she hurried away quickly. She moved seats in biology. When I hobbled into the library at lunchtime, she left the room and looked like she was going to cry.
  2. Hunk was absent, so I was alone in maths. Apparently, his chest infection (he has had one for weeks now, and that is why he was using breathing apparatus, because his lungs were damaged) developed into pneumonia and he is in hospital. I would visit him, but I don’t know how to comfort ill people.
  3. And I was bullied again by Kate and her horrible group of friends.



In conclusion, it was awful and not worth talking about.

 

3

I expect Dad to be watching one of his comedy videos when I get home, but, to my amazement and horror, the news is on. A ‘breaking news’ banner is at the bottom of the screen, and I instantly know something seriously bad has happened.

“What the hell’s going on, Al?” Papa asks, sitting down beside Dad, who is staring at the screen with a blank expression on his face.

Dad just shakes his head slightly, reaching out and taking Papa’s hand in his own.

“Dad?” I say. I can feel myself starting to panic, and I click my fingers together. My legs feel funny, so I sit down on the arm of the sofa, and stare at the television.

Papa turns the volume up a bit too loud, but I don’t complain. We just sit in silence and watch the news reporter tell us that there has been a terrorist attack in New York. Apparently, an aeroplane has been flown into the World Trade Centre.

“Oh my God,” Papa gasps.

Dad puts his arm around him, but he doesn’t look much better.                               

“Bloody hell,” I say, far too loud, but Dad and Papa don’t say anything.

Then the screen changes, and we get to see footage of what has happened. My eyes widen as I watch smoke billowing out of one of the towers, whilst the other seems to be collapsing. I can hear people screaming, and every so often, figures appearing at the windows, only for them to jump out. We are actually seeing people die.

Papa turns his head away, tears in his eyes. “I can’t watch this.” He says.

I know that this is awful and wrong and whoever has done such a horrible thing is evil, but I’m not upset. This must be what Dr David meant when he said I have low empathy. So whilst my parents stare at the TV and almost cry over this awful attack, I just sit here, watching them react and wondering what I am missing.

 

4

For the rest of the evening, everyone is rather quiet. Every time we turn the TV on, we see something about the terrorist attack, so we keep the television off. We have ways to occupy ourselves when we aren’t using the TV[4], but it would be difficult to play board games when Dad is so ill and I can’t see properly. So we just end up sitting together in the living room, Dad slumped on the sofa bed with Papa sat beside him, and Lance and I on the armchairs, trying to talk about things but ending up with awkward silence.

Eventually, I think of something to say. It isn’t very interesting, but I suppose it is quite important. “I need new glasses.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot!” Lance says, smacking a hand against his forehead and laughing.

Papa smiles sadly. “Sorry, love, I think we all forgot. I’ll phone the opticians tomorrow and try to get you an appointment.”

I smile. “Thank you, Papa.”

Speaking of appointments, that reminds me of something else to talk about. Although I don’t know if this will end well.

“Um, Dad…” I say, wringing my hands. “How did your appointment go?”

Sure enough, Dad looks down and looks like he might cry. Papa grasps Dad’s hand and squeezes it.

“It went quite well, we think,” Papa says.

I sort of wish that I could have gone with them, but Dad and Papa wouldn’t let me skip sixth form. Which is rather hypocritical, considering they are the ones who pulled me out of high school and homeschooled me last year.

“They had a long chat with your dad about the surgery and things like that. Apparently, it’ll take about seven hours and Dad’ll be in recovery for a few days before they let him leave the hospital. And they’ll do the biopsy and…” Papa trails off, twisting his moustache with his free hand. “You know.”

Lance smiles, even though it looks strained and he is jiggling his legs up and down. “Okay. So… when is it?”

“Friday,” Dad mumbles.

“It’ll be okay, Dad,” Lance says, and he gets up, crosses the room and gives Dad a hug.

“Yes, we’ll come to visit you and then you’ll feel so much better afterwards,” I say, not wanting to bring up what might happen if it turns out that the tumour is malignant. Although I definitely have a point, because even if the tumour is malignant, Dad will surely feel much less ill without it inside his brain.

Dad smiles, sniffing and wiping his eyes with a shaky hand. “Th-Thank you. I love you… all so much.”

And that is what makes Papa cry, and soon everyone is in tears, and as I sob I just hope hope hope that Dad will get better.

 

5

It is 11:09pm, and I can’t sleep. Given how awful my sleep has been these last few days, this honestly does not surprise me. Still, it is very annoying to just be lying here, staring into the darkness, bored and in pain, so tired but unable to sleep.

Whenever I close my eyes, I think about Dad and his surgery and I see the footage of the terrorist attack, and I still don’t cry even though I know all of those people were dying and I feel so sick and wish I could feel proper empathy like everyone else[5]. I roll over and groan, wishing I had my glasses so I can read comfortably.

By 11:21pm, I am so bored and distressed that I decide to just get up. I limp through my room and out onto the landing, but I don’t go downstairs. Instead, I go to Dad and Papa’s door and knock (after first confirming that the door is ajar, not shut).

I hear shuffling and then Papa says in a groggy voice, “Come in, love.”

At this point, he doesn’t know if it is me or Lance outside their room. Then again, I am much more likely to be wide awake and on the move in the night than my brother. I push open the door and hobble into my parents’ bedroom.

Through the lamppost light shining through the curtains, I see Papa sitting up in bed, propping himself up with his hand. He blinks blearily; he must have been asleep only a minute or so ago.

“Allura?” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

I hesitate. I balance awkwardly on the foot that doesn’t hurt, nibbling on my bottom lip. And I know it will make me seem so weak and pathetic and childish, but I want to say it. I need to say it.

“Papa… can I stay in here with you?” I say, ducking my head. “I… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Oh, Allura, love, of course you can,” Papa says, sitting up properly and swinging his feet over the side of the bed. He isn’t wearing his ankle brace, so his foot drop[6] is very obvious. “Are you okay?”

I shrug my shoulders, putting my crutches on the floor and sitting beside him on the bed. Dad is fast asleep, curled up on his side with one arm dangling over the side of bed. I cross my arms across my chest.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, trying my best to keep my voice quiet so I don’t wake Dad. “It’s just… with everything that’s happening… my brain is so full of scary thoughts and… I can’t sleep…” My hands are wringing together, and I flex my injured finger and pain shoots up my hand. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Ssh, it’s okay, love,” Papa says, smiling even though he looks slightly like he wants to cry. “I understand. I feel like that a lot too.”

He holds out his hand and I hold it. For some reason I suddenly want to cry, but I manage not to.

“So I can stay?”

“Of course you can,” Papa says again. He pats the bed and adds, “Climb in.”

I smile and squeeze his hand, before getting into bed beside Papa. With the three of us in the bed, it is a bit squashed, but we don’t mind. Dad is still asleep, and Papa happily snuggles up with him (I believe it is called spooning), giving me more room. And I lie down in my dads’ bed, and it smells like Dad’s deodorant and Papa’s aftershave, and it makes me feel so safe and secure here.

And even though I still feel anxious and achy and sore, I actually start to relax. I fall asleep just before midnight, listening to the sounds of Dad and Papa breathing.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] I know most people who wear glasses have more than one pair, but I don’t. I used to, but when I got my current pair back in May, Dad and Papa could only afford to buy me one pair. This is because we have been rather… low on money these last few months, due to Dad missing a lot of work due to his health problems.

[2] I have an astigmatism (a disorder of my left eye that means I can’t focus my vision properly) that I apparently inherited from my mum (she had one too) that isn’t too severe, but makes focusing my eyes without glasses very uncomfortable and causes eye strain.

[3] Here follows the incredibly embarrassing experience of how I walked on my parents having sex: It was 11pm and I wasn’t feeling very well, so I went and knocked on their bedroom door to ask for some painkillers. I could hear noises and Papa said something, and I thought he said something to me so I opened the door. It was dark in there, but I saw Dad and Papa on the bed, kissing as Dad lay on top of Papa and his hips rocked back and forth and they moaned. I had been through sex education a couple of years earlier, so I knew what was going on, and I panicked. “Sorry!” I yelled and I ran out of the room, clicking my fingers and wanting to burn the memory out of my head. I heard Dad and Papa swear and ran into my bedroom, shutting the door. A few minutes later, Papa came to talk to me, looking so embarrassed his face was almost as red as his hair. He apologised and I apologised and he got me the medicine I needed. We talked about it a few years later and laughed awkwardly, but other than that we tried to forget it. And we never told Lance. Overall, it was a wakeup call about not walking into people’s bedrooms without knocking – a very embarrassing one at that.

[4]With Lance’s short attention span, we need something as a backup when we have a power cut, for example. And then there was the time when I was eight and Lance was six, in which we went through a phase where we tried to have TV-free weekends. It lasted four weekends before we gave up. We haven’t tried it since.

[5] Low empathy is normal for some people and doesn’t make you a bad person. Unfortunately, like many people who have low empathy, I still sometimes feel like it makes me a bad person. In this moment, my levels of self-hatred are rather high, and I wish I was normal even though I normally hate the idea of normality, because it doesn’t make sense. This proves that even someone as self aware as me can still struggle with self esteem.

[6] A foot drop happens when your nerves are damaged, in this case caused by Papa’s MS. It means he can’t control his ankle properly, and his foot dangles like it would if you snapped for Achilles tendon. It looks a bit strange, but we are all used to seeing it.


	10. 12/09/01

Wednesday 12th September 2001

1

Sixth form is going normally, until the staff decides to change things without warning. I am sat in mathematics, struggling through a difficult problem and wishing Hunk was here to help me (and that my eyes would stop hurting; I have had permanent eye strain the last few days, and it is getting increasingly difficult to focus), when Mr Allen stands up at his desk and clears his throat to get our attention.

“I’ve just had an email from senior management and they said we’re having an assembly today,” Mr Allen says. “Well, right now, to be specific.”

I look at the clock. It is 9:58am. Why do we have an assembly in the middle of my maths lesson? I hate routine changes[1]. Still, I don’t raise this question, because Mr Allen is my favourite teacher and I don’t want to annoy him; if I annoy him, he might stop liking me.

“So hurry up and get to the hall, you lot,” he says.

I appear to be the only one who has an issue with this; everyone else seems pleased to get some time out of lessons. But from my experience at secondary school, I know that assemblies can often be duller than lessons.

Still slow on my feet from using crutches, I am the last student to leave the classroom. Thankfully, Mr Allen walks beside me so I’m not left behind.

“Are you doing okay, Allura?” he asks, looking at me as I hobble along on my crutches.

I force myself to smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you aren’t wearing your glasses and you seem pretty severely injured. You know, Allura, if there is anything wrong, you can always come and talk to me.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, and my smile is genuine this time. “But I’m fine. Really.”

Mr Allen doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything.

The hall is almost full, so my class must be one of the last to arrive. I slip into an empty seat and put my crutches on the floor, noticing that Katie is sat a few rows away from me. Seeing my former friend makes me want to cry, but I wring my hands together and manage to avoid it.

The moment our head teacher appears, it becomes obvious why she called this assembly.

“Now, students, I am sure you are all aware of the terrible incident that occurred yesterday in New York. Well, to respect the many people who lost their lives and the many more affected by it, I would like us to hold a two minute silence.”

No one says a thing. The hall is already silent. We are all thinking about what we saw on the TV yesterday, trying to understand what it must be like for something so awful to happen to your friends and family. And the silence continues throughout the entire two minute silence, and after it finishes, the only one who speaks is our head teacher. The silence only really ends when she ends the assembly and sends us back to class.

Back in mathematics, I find it even harder to concentrate than before. I spend the rest of the lesson staring blankly at my textbook, wondering why the world has to be so terrible.

 

2

At break time, I literally bump into Katie. I am limping through the corridor outside the library when we bump into each other. I stumble backwards, and my eyes widen when I realise who it is.

“Oh, h-hello, Katie,” I say.

I hear Katie let out a shuddering sigh. But she doesn’t respond to me. She just stands there. Is she ignoring me?

“Katie?”

When I glance at her face, I see Katie look like she might cry. Instead, she turns around and walks away.

She _is_ ignoring me.

We’re never going to be friends again, are we?

 

3

It is 4:34pm and I am in my normal seat in the car when I decide to go back on something I told myself yesterday. It is about not telling Papa about my friendship problems with Katie because I didn’t want to worry him. And I still don’t want to worry about him, but this argument with Katie is contributing to my already high anxiety, and I fear that keeping it to myself will make the stress too much and I might have a meltdown.

So I lean forwards in my seat (opening my eyes but keeping my vision focused on the back of the seat in front) and say, “Papa, can we talk about something?”

“Of course, love,” Papa says. “Is something the matter?”

“Um, I… yes, there is. You see, you know my friend Katie?”

“Yes, love. You seem quite fond of her. We can have her ‘round for tea if you want. Allura?”

And my chest feels tight and I start to click my fingers as I mumble, “I don’t think we’re friends anymore.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we argued yesterday and…” I trail off. It is getting hard to think. I bounce my leg up and down.

“Look, love, all friends have little quarrels. That doesn’t mean you aren’t friends anymore.”

“But, but we argued yesterday and she didn’t talk to me at school today either and she’s ignoring me and…” I trail off, my eyes filling with tears.

My breathing hitches and the tears spill down my cheeks.

“No, no, Allura, love, don’t cry,” Papa babbles, and his obvious distress makes me cry harder.

As I rock back and forth and back and forth in my seat, Papa stops the car. I open my eyes, and even though the tears are blurring my vision, I see that Papa has pulled the car over at the side of the road. He gets out of the car and joins me on the back seat, and I cry and rock and click my fingers so hard it makes my knuckles hurt.

“I’ve lost my only friend!” I cry, and I bury my head in my hands, sobbing so hard it makes my throat hurt.

“Please don’t cry, love,” Papa says. “I’m sure it’ll work out.”

But I know it won’t. This is why I have never had any friends. Because I always ruin it. I’m going to be lonely for my entire life.

And I hate how ridiculously overdramatic I am being. With everything else going on in my life, this is just so… pathetic.

“How can I be so pathetic, Papa?” I gasp, my fingers digging into my hair so tightly it hurts my scalp. “My dad might have cancer and there was just the most terrifying awful terrorist attack in America, and I’m worried because my friend is ignoring me?! I’m so pathetic!”

“No, you’re not pathetic, Allura,” Papa says, and he reaches out and I grasp his hand and hold it so tightly it is like I can’t let go. “You’re stressed and upset. But it’ll be okay, I’m sure of it.”

I want to believe him. I really do.

But I just don’t know. It really does seem that Katie will never talk to me again. And I really like her. Why did we have to argue?

But Papa is right about one thing: as I sit in the car and sob and hold Papa’s hand as hard as I can, I gradually stop crying. I sniff and Papa hands me a tissue, and I wipe my face. My heart is still pounding and my eyes ache from crying, but I think crying has made me feel better. And Papa being by my side throughout my little breakdown helped more than I can explain.

I smile at him and he smiles back.

“Thank you, Papa,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse from crying.

Papa squeezes my hand again. “It’s nothing, love.”

 

4

Papa is not my biological father, but that does not matter to me. Given how my mum died when I was very young, he is the only parent other than Dad I have ever known.

His name is Coran Smythe, and I love him so much. In fact, even though he is not my biological parent[2], I am certain that I love him equally as I love Dad.

But loving my parents equally poses a problem. My fathers have been arguing so much lately, and I feel like I have to take a side. But if I love them equally (which I’m certain is the case), then whose side do I take?

I just wish our family dynamic would go back to normal, and then none of this would even be an issue.

But I know it is not going to be that simple. Nothing ever is.

 

5

As my family sit at the dinner table (Lance trying to listen to the TV still on in the living room, Dad slumped in his chair and looking wobbly, Papa looking exhausted and worried, and me bouncing my legs under the table), I decide to voice an idea of mine.

“Um, do you think I should try phoning Katie?” I say, staring down at my plate.

“How come?” Lance asks.

“She and her friend had a bit of a… disagreement at school,” Papa explains. “Well, I think that’s a good idea, love. Try phoning her and see if she wants to talk over the phone.”

I smile. “Thanks. The only problem is… I don’t know her number.”

Papa, Lance and I look at each other. And then Dad makes us jump when he speaks for the first time of the whole meal.

“Y-Yellow Pages,” he stutters, giving me a brief, lopsided smile.

“Of course!” Papa cries. “We can look in the Yellow Pages. Good idea, love.”

He leans across the table and squeezes Dad’s hand. They smile at each other, and for once Lance doesn’t make a silly comment. I smile too.

And so after I have finished eating, I go into the hallway and take the huge Yellow Pages book out of the cupboard under the stairs. I sit cross legged on the floor beside the phone with the heavy book on my lap, and flick through to the H section. After two minutes and twenty seconds of reading, I find five entries that have the name ‘Holt’. But when I realise I don’t know which one is Katie’s family, I know I am going to have to telephone them all.

This is what I find when I phone the five numbers:

  1. This person appears to be an old woman. She tells me that she lives alone with her four cats. So it is not this number.
  2. This phone is answered by a young child. They babble something intelligible until their mother takes the phone and apologised. She tells me she is a single mother with a two year old son. So it is not this number.
  3. This person is a man who tells me he lives alone with his wife. So it is not this number.
  4. This phone is answered by a young woman. She tells me that she lives with her husband and her two young sons. So it is not this number either.
  5. But this number proves to be accurate.



When the person on the other end of the line picks up, I say, “Hello. By any chance, does a girl called Katie live here?”

“Yeah, my step-daughter’s called Katie,” says the person. It is a man with a deep voice. “I’m William, her step-dad. Why are you calling?”

“I’m Allura, her friend,” I say, amazed to finally be talking to someone in Katie’s house. “I’d like to speak with her, if that’s okay.”

“Sorry, but she can’t come to the phone right now,” William says, but he doesn’t sound very sorry to me.

And he hangs up. I put the phone down, my head bowed. I sigh and wander into the living room. The rest of my family are already in here, and look at me expectantly.

“She couldn’t come to the phone,” I say flatly.

“Don’t get disheartened, love,” Papa says. “I’m sure it’ll work out.”

And I smile even though I sort of want to cry, wishing Papa’s never ending optimism would rub off on me.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] A lot of autistic people really like routine, and really dislike change. I am one of them. This is because I struggle immensely in social situations, and one of the few things that gets me through them is relying on routines. And so when my routine changes, I have to go back to dealing with things in a spontaneous way and being spontaneous causes anxiety and stress.

[2] People get the idea that an adopted parent is not a ‘real’ parent, and the only real families are the ones biologically related to you. I think this idea is a load of bollocks. I mean, Papa and Lance are two of my favourite people in the world, and I love them lots. And they aren’t biologically related to me at all. Yes, genetics mean nothing when it comes to family.


	11. 13/09/01

Thursday 13th September 2001

1

The problem with never having had friends before is that, when you finally do get a friend, you find that you don’t know how friendship really works. I understand how family relationships work, but friendship is different. Family is about people you are related to (whether by blood or by law) and you stick with even when times get hard; but friendship is about people you find and meet and decide to spend time with, except it tends to be more of a fickle relationship and people break friendships very easily.

I am sixteen years old, and I only very recently made friends with people for the first time. One of my friends is in hospital with a chest infection and I am too scared to go and visit him because I would have no idea what to say to him. And my other friend… I offended her deeply while trying to work out why she was injured and went too far, and since then she hasn’t talked to me. So, basically, I have lost them both.

I know I will see Hunk again when he gets better and comes back to sixth form, but I have no clue how to make friends with Katie. To be honest, I don’t know if we will ever be friends again. And it hurts, because I know this is all my fault.

Sixth form is as horrible as it was yesterday, with me sitting alone all day because Hunk isn’t here and Katie is ignoring me. So there is no point talking about it. It just is what is; which is awful.

I want it to go back to how it was last week, before Dad’s tumour was found and before the attack the media have dubbed 9/11 happened and before my injuries and my horribly high anxiety about Dad and my ruined friendship with Katie. The world seemed so nice then; like everything was starting to get on well in my life. And then the world around me shattered, and everything went awful. And it is still awful.

Will it ever stop being awful?

 

2

After tea, I flop onto the armchair with my arms folded, having to use a great deal of my limited energy to stop myself crying. My crutches are on the floor beside me, the cold metal touching one of my feet. I hate the things; they make my hands hurt and my balance is appalling, making me feel like I will fall over at the slightest thing.

“You o-okay, ‘Lura?” Dad says.

I look at him sitting slumped on the sofa bed, and smile when I notice how much better he looks today. His mouth doesn’t droop as much, he seems more alert and his voice is much easier to understand. But then I remember the mass inside his brain and my smile fades, because I know how ill he is, and how a good day means nothing in the long run.

I force myself to smile, nodding my head. “Yes, Dad. though I do have eye strain from not wearing my glasses.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Papa says, rushing into the room as quickly as he can and making me jump slightly. “Sorry, love. I forgot to tell you, but I phoned the opticians and they’re really quite shit—”

“Papa!” Lance gasps, perfectly mimicking the tone Papa uses when he tells Lance and I off for swearing. Lance and I giggle and Papa rolls his eyes.

“Excuse my language,” Papa says, twisting the ends of his moustache as he sits down on the edge of the sofa bed. “But it’s really irritating. They don’t have any appointments for three weeks. And…” his voice gets quiet, as though he is ashamed to even say it. “Even if we could get a bloody appointment, I don’t know if we could afford it.”

“Its okay, Papa,” I say, reaching for his hand and clasping it for three seconds. “I’m getting used to it. What with having stitches in my hand and foot that are starting to dissolve, my eye strain is the last of my problems.”

“I’ve got an idea!” Lance says, grinning and rocking in his seat. “In the meantime, we can get you some of those reading glasses from a pound shop. You know the ones; they’re pretty basic, but it’ll magnify things for you when you’re reading and help a bit.”

We all know that my vision problems are more complicated than Lance implied, but no one says it. To be honest, I just appreciate the help. And what with my overloaded emotions lately, it sort of makes me want to cry.

“Thanks, Lance,” I say. “That’s a good idea.”

Lance smiles. “No problemo[1], sis.”

As Dad and Papa ask Lance about school, I start to think about yesterday, about how I phoned Katie’s house only to get through to her step-dad how seemed… off… in some way, to me. And I start to wonder how it might go if I get through to Katie herself or her mother instead. I really do want to resolve my friendship with Katie. So it must be worth another try.

Waiting for Lance to finish an anecdote about a ‘dickhead’ setting off the fire alarm, I say, “Is it all right for me to use the phone again?”

Dad and Papa look at each other. I know they are thinking about how I never use the phone, so it must be weird for me to use it twice in as many days. But they don’t say this, instead nodding (which makes Dad wince and close his eyes).

“Course you can, love,” Papa says. “Do you want to try phoning Katie again?”

I nod. “…Yes.”

And before I get pulled into a long conversation, I hobble into the hallway, get out the Yellow Pages again, and dial the correct Holt phone number. It rings and rings and I click my fingers and hope I don’t have to talk to William again.

“Hello?” a woman says, and I nearly sigh with relief that it isn’t Katie’s step-dad.

“Um, hello,” I say, wishing I could be more natural when talking on the phone. “I was wondering if I could talk to Katie. I’m Allura, her friend.”

“Oh, hello, dear. I’m Colleen, Katie’s mum. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

For some reason, my face starts to heat up. Although, given Colleen is being nice to me, it implies that Katie has not told her mother about our argument. “I called yesterday, but Katie’s step-dad said Katie couldn’t come to the phone.”

Colleen hesitates. The only reason I know she is still on the other end of the line is I can hear her breathing. “Really? Well, never mind. She’s here now.”

“Great. Can I talk to her?”

“Well, I’m afraid she’s in the shower right now, dear,” Colleen says. “But if you want to come around to visit, we’re free and she’ll be ready by the time you arrive.”

My heart rate starts to increase, but it is more from excitement than fear. “That sounds brilliant. I would love to.”

And so Colleen gives me their address and I scribble it down, and my smile is broad when we say goodbye and I put the phone down.

I stand up and limp over to the living room door. I stick my head into the room, and everyone notices my smile.

“Papa?” I say, trying to sound like Lance when he is asking for a favour. “Would you please drive me to Katie’s house?”

Lance gives Dad a high five and Papa stands up.

“Of course I can, love.”

 

3

In the car, I bounce my legs up and down and wring my hands together. Papa has turned the radio on (keeping the volume low so as not to hurt my ears), and we listen to 1980s music. I close my eyes and try to lose myself in the music, and Papa hums along with surprisingly good pitch.

But as much as I try to think about the music, I keep thinking about Katie. If this goes well, we might be friends again. And I would love that so much.

Papa turns the music down and says, “So, do you think you might be friends again?”

I sigh. “Not right now. But if this goes well, I think we might.”

“I hope you do, love. You deserve to be happy.”

When Papa stops the car at the right address, I look out of the window. Katie’s house is pretty, about the same size as ours and much less scruffy (our front garden is a mess, because Dad and Papa are too unwell to keep it tidy, whilst I can’t deal with gardening and Lance can’t be bothered). There isn’t a car on the driveway.

“Can… you come with me?”

Papa turns around and looks at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes… I,” I sigh. “I don’t want to go on my own.”

I reach out my hand and he clasps it.

“Of course, love.”

And we get out of the car together. Me hobbling on crutches and Papa limping with his walking stick, we walk up the garden path and Papa knocks on the door.

I thought we must look a sight, what with me injured and Papa looking poorly (like always), but it turns out that Colleen isn’t exactly normal looking either. Just like the first time I saw her in the car park, she is injured; then it was a black eye, but this time it is a bruise on her chin that she has again tried to cover with too much foundation.

But she smiles when she sees us, even though it must hurt her bruise. “Hello! You must be Allura. And who’s this?”

“I’m Coran, Allura’s father,” Papa says, shaking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms Holt.”

Colleen leads us inside her house and into the living room, and I am more interested in surveying my surroundings than listening to what she might be saying. During the short walk through the hallway and into the living room, the following things stick out to me for one reason or another:

  * A photo of Katie in school uniform. She only looks a bit younger than she does now, so it must be a year 11 photo.
  * A big pair of DM boots sat by the doormat.
  * A photo of Katie and a boy who looks a lot like her in uniform, smiling as they hold certificates. Judging from their blue berets and blue shirts, I think they are in Air Cadet uniform.
  * A photo of Katie, Colleen and William, in which Katie has a split lip.
  * A photo of the boy from the other photo and a man I don’t recognise. The glass in the frame is cracked.
  * A rugby ball on the floor in the corner of the living room.
  * A collection of trophies stood on the bookcase.



By the time I start paying attention to Colleen again, we have sat down on the sofa and I realise I didn’t hear a word of what she said.

“… down in a few minutes,” Colleen is saying, smiling. “Is there anything I can get either of you? A drink, maybe?”

“No thank you,” I say, trying my best to sound polite.

“I’d love a glass of water, thanks,” Papa says.

“No problem,” Colleen says.

As she stands up, my curiosity gets the better of me. I point to the photo of the boy and the man and ask, “Who are those people?”

I immediately realise that was the wrong thing to say. Colleen’s face crumples, and I’m terrified that she might start crying.

“Sorry! Sorry, you don’t need to answer if it’ll upset you,” I babble, wringing my hands together.

“No, it’s all right,” Colleen says. She sighs shakily. “That’s my son Matt and my ex-husband Sam. Three years ago, they died in a car accident.”

“I’m so sorry,” Papa says, doing that thing people do where they apologise even though the thing that happened to another person was nothing to do with them.

“Thank you,” she says, and she walks out of the room.

“Did I do something wrong?” I say, turning to Papa.

He smiles sadly and holds my hand. “A bit tactless, love, but thankfully it turned out okay.”

I sigh, wishing I wasn’t so socially inept. Colleen returns in one minute and forty one seconds and gives Papa a glass of water. He smiles, thanks her, and sips the drink. A door slams upstairs and Colleen smiles (even though she still looks upset).

“I think Katie’s done. I’ll go get her.”

Colleen walks out into the hallway and calls up the stairs, “Katie? You’ve got a guest!”

I hear footsteps on the stairs and glance at Papa. He gives me a reassuring smile.

I walk out into hallway, leaving Papa in the living room. And then Katie walks to the bottom of the stairs and stops and stares at me.

“Allura?” she says.

Her hair is wet and she has no makeup on, exposing her barely healed black eye, the black eye that caused our argument. We stare at each other, and it is incredibly awkward.

“Hello, Katie.”

“Would you girls like to go upstairs?” Colleen says.

I look away from Katie, but nod my head. I think she does too.

“Yeah, we can do that,” Katie says. “Come on, Allura. I’ll show you my bedroom.”

I smile even though my stomach is twisting with anxiety, I follow her through the house. Katie takes me upstairs and into her bedroom, where I find a lot of photos of Matt and Sam mixed in with the rest of Katie’s possessions.

Once the door is closed, I turn around and say, “Sorry for arriving here so randomly. But… I just wanted to talk to you. I hate this, Katie. I wish we could be friends again.”

Katie sighs and sits on her bed. She doesn’t look at me, and she doesn’t speak. She simply wrings her hands together.

I shift awkwardly on my good foot, the handles of my crutches digging into my palms. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just so worried when I saw you were injured. And I’m so stressed about my family life and I know that’s not an excuse to snap at you. I just… I’m sorry for upsetting you, Katie. Please let’s be friends again.”

Finally, Katie looks up. She pats the duvet next to her, gesturing for me to sit down. I do so, staring around Katie’s bedroom. Katie looks at me, and then her face crumples and she starts to sob.

“Katie…” I say, shocked to see her crying and having no idea how to help. “Please don’t cry.”

“Oh, Allura,” she cries, her voice hitching as she sobs. Katie starts to rock back and forth. “Fucking hell, I’m sorry too. I want to be friends again. I’m sorry for ignoring you. I… please be my friend again.”

And she sobs and rubs her eyes and I want to comfort her but I don’t know how.

“I’d love to be your friend again,” I whisper, and I hold out my hand.

Katie stares at my hand, and then clasps it. She interlocks our fingers, still sobbing as a smile spreads across her face.

“So would I… friend,” Katie says.

And that is it. We are friends again.

I can’t believe it was so easy! But it is so wonderful. We are friends again.

I’m not alone anymore.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] Lance likes to say silly things like this. It doesn’t make sense and I don’t understand why he likes to talk nonsense, but it makes me laugh even when I don’t understand, and this sort of silliness is a staple of my silly younger brother.


	12. 14/09/01

Friday 14th September 2001

1

Today is the day. At 9:30am, Dad is going to be admitted to hospital for brain surgery. Several hours after his arrival, he will be put under anaesthetic and sent into the operating theatre. And after almost seven hours of surgery, he will be put into the recovery room. And then once his anaesthetic has worn off, he will be sent to recover on a ward. And all of this should talk place in a twenty four hour time span.

Everyone is scared, especially Dad. We all know that the risks of surgery are extremely low, and it is incredibly unlikely that there will be complications, it is all everyone in the house can think of. Well, that is how it is for me, but I am such a worrier that that’s probably not surprising. But even though I am not very good at reading what other people are thinking, even I can tell that Dad, Papa and Lance are all having similar worries.

I awoke at 5:28am this morning, my heart racing and my chest tight with anxiety. I got up and went to find Dad and Papa, only to literally bump into Lance on the landing. It turns out that he have awoken early too and was also looking to see Dad and Papa. So we went to their door together, knocking on the frame of the ajar door, and Papa responded in a surprisingly awake voice. Which was when I realised that Papa was awake too. When Lance and I went into the room, we found the light on and Dad and Papa propped up in bed, talking to each other. So everyone was awake – which was when I realised that I wasn’t the only one worried about the surgery.

Lance and I sat on the end of the double bed and looked at our parents. And I just wrung my hands together and said, “Are you okay about your surgery today, Dad?”

Dad flinched like he wasn’t expecting that question, and smiled a forced, lopsided smile. “Th-Think so… darling.”

“We’re a bit worried, of course, but I think that’s normal,” Papa said, looking like he was trying not to cry.

“But it’ll be okay, right?” Lance said, chewing his fingernails.

Dad and Papa glanced at each other, and Papa nodded.

“Right,” they both said, and I knew they we’re telling the truth. Because you can’t know for definite that surgery will go right (because there are always complications, even if the chance of them happening is very low); they must have just said that to try and make Lance feel better. But I don’t know if it worked – and it certainly didn’t work on me.

That all happened in the early hours of the morning, before 6am. It is now 8:22am, three minutes before Papa is scheduled to drop Lance off at school and me off at sixth form. We need to go out to the car so we can leave on time, but no one seems to be moving.

I look into the living room, where Dad is sat on the sofa bed. But for the first time in days, he isn’t dressed in pyjamas, instead wearing scruffy tracksuit bottoms and a polo shirt. He looks so ill and exhausted, but it is a surprisingly pleasant change to see him wearing actual clothes for once.

Lance stands beside be, bouncing on the balls of his feet and fiddling with the straps of his backpack. He is looking at Dad too.

Papa finishes putting on his shoes (his coordination is quite poor so he really struggles with his shoelaces these days) and stands up, limping over to where Lance and I are stood in the living room doorway, staring at Dad. For five seconds, Papa also looks at Dad, but then he pats Lance’s backpack and nods his head at me.

“I know what you two are thinking,” he says softly.

“Really?” Lance says, not looking away from Dad.

“You want to stay home from school so you can come with me to take Dad to the hospital later, don’t you?”

I stare down at the floor, wringing my hands. How can Papa tell what we are thinking? How are other people so good at reading[1] each other’s body language and facial expressions? I sometimes wish that I had this ability.

Lance sighs. “Yeah, I am.”

“And me,” I whisper.

“Please, Papa, please, Dad, can’t we stay home?!” Lance says, his voice getting too loud as he struggles to hide his distress.

Papa sighs. “No, Lance, you can’t. You need to go to school. You can say goodbye to Dad now.”

As Lance and Papa bicker (and get closer to actually arguing), I look at my watch. I am still using Papa’s watch after I broke my own, and it is as comforting to have on my wrist as ever. My watch says it is 8:29am, and my heart rate increases.

“Papa,” I say, trying to stop him and Lance arguing about staying off of school. “We need to leave.”

“Trust me, love, I know,” Papa says. he puts his hands on Lance’s shoulders and says, “Look, I know how you feel. I’m worried too. we all are. But we can’t put our lives on hold for this. The only reason I’m going with your dad is to drive him. you two don’t need to come. I promise it’ll all be okay. Please, love, just say goodbye to Dad now and go to school before Allura gets stressed. Please.”

Lance sighs, looking up at Papa and making eye contact. I wonder if Lance is going to cry, but instead he says, “Sorry.”

Papa squeezes his shoulder. “It’s all right.”

And so Lance and I walk into the living room and sit on the sofa bed either side of Dad, who was obviously listening to the entire discussion/borderline argument but didn’t say anything. I look at Dad and my eyes burn, but I don’t let myself cry. I reach out my hand and squeeze his tightly, interlocking our fingers.

“You’re going to be all right, Dad,” I say. “I promise. We’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

Dad smiles, his eyes filling with tears. He squeezes my hand back. “Thanks, d-darling. I love… you t-too.”

And Lance says goodbye by pulling Dad into a tight hug and whispering, “Love you so much, Dad. Everything’s gonna be fine and then everything’ll be great again, right?”

When he pulls away, we both see tears running down Dad’s face. But he smiles and says, “Right.”

And then Papa kisses Dad and leads me and Lance out of the house, and we get into the car and drive away.

 

2

“Hi, Allura!” Katie cries, racing towards me and flapping her hands.

I grin and reach out to give her a high-five, so very glad that we are friends again. “Hello. How are you?”

“I’m all right. You know…” Katie ducks her head, her pale face starting to flush. “It’s so nice to be friends again.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I say, and Katie gives the most lovely, beaming grin.

We have different lessons all morning, but meet up again at break time, me still reeling from a confusing chemistry lesson. I smile when I see Katie, and she smiles too. It is so great to be friends with her again.

“Fancy doing something a bit different?” Katie says.

“Like what?”

“Well, instead of going into the canteen, let’s go out onto the tennis courts and sit out there. We’ll have to sit on the ground, but it’s dry and then we won’t have to sit somewhere busy and loud.”

But she doesn’t have to keep justifying her idea, because I like it. “That sounds good. Should we go?”

Walking side by side, Katie and I leave the sixth form by the side door and head around the back of the building, where the three tennis courts are located. They’re only made with tarmac and clearly haven’t been refurbished in years, but it is quiet because the only time they are used is during A Level PE lessons, none of which happen during break time. So, just as Katie suggested, we walk into the tennis courts and sit on the cold ground, leaning back against the tall metal fence.

As we sit next to each other and eat our snacks, Katie and I look around at the deserted tennis courts, covered in dead leaves from the early autumn leaf loss on the tall trees. But as I survey my surroundings, I start to think about Dad, wondering how he is getting on at the hospital. And I realise that I have never told Katie about Dad’s health, and it seems that it is a good idea to tell her, as good friendships rely on trust.

So I screw up my crisp packet and shove it into my pocket and say, “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure. What’s the matter?”

“It’s just… I haven’t told anyone before, but… there’s something seriously wrong with my dad,” I say.

“What, the ginger bloke who picks you up after school?” Katie says.

“No, that’s my Papa. He came with me when I went to visit you, but I don’t think you ever saw each other.”

Realising what I just said, I tense up, expecting Katie to say something homophobic (because as much as I like Katie, years and years of homophobia directed at me because of my dads’ relationship has made me rather paranoid). But that doesn’t happen. Katie just nods.

“Okay, so I haven’t met your dad then?”

I stare at her. “You’re not going to be homophobic?”

“Of course not!” Katie says a bit too loud. “I’m not a bigot. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’m b-bisexual, so me being a homophobe would be hilariously hypocritical.”

Katie is blushing slightly, and I realise she just came out to me.

She laughs awkwardly. “Sorry if that was weird, but I’ve never come out before, so I don’t really know how it’s done.”

“It was fine, trust me,” I say. “And thanks for telling me. That’s very brave of you.”

Katie goes even redder. “Thank you. Sorry, we got totally distracted. What was it you wanted to say about your dad?”

My smile fades as my thoughts go back to Dad. “Well, he’s ill. For months now, he has been getting horrible headaches and nosebleeds and dizzy spells and all sorts of weird things. But he just tried to deny it, and he got worse and worse. The night I injured my foot and my hand, Dad had a seizure—”

“Shit,” Katie whispers, obviously getting an idea of where this is going.

“And I called 999 but had a meltdown and that’s how I got hurt. He went to hospital and had a brain scan, and they found he has a t-tumour in his brain…” I trail off, sighing as I wring my hands together. “He went in for surgery this morning, and I hope he’ll be all right but I just don’t know for certain and I hate not knowing.”

“I know what you mean,” Katie says. She holds out her hands. “I know you’ve probably heard this far too much, but I hope your dad gets better too. And… you can always talk to me. But… I still don’t want to talk about…” Katie points at her eye, where the bruising is fading.

I remember our argument that almost destroyed our friendship, and I hate that there is something going on with Katie that she won’t tell me about. But I don’t want to upset her again. so I just take her hand and she interlocks our fingers, and I try my best to smile.

“That’s okay,” I say. “And thank you. It means a lot.”

And before we have a chance to continue our conversation, the bell rings and we have to rush back into the building so we aren’t late for our next lesson.

 

3

After sixth form, Katie and I sit on a bench together outside, both waiting for the same car. The reason for this is a conversation we had at lunchtime.

I don’t really know what gave me the idea, but I knew that Lance often invites his friends around after school. So I looked at Katie and said, “Would you like to come around my house after school? My family won’t mind.”

Katie smiled, her cheeks flushing. “R-Really?”

I nodded. “Of course. I never have people round, and Papa will probably love the distraction from worrying about Dad.”

“Well, if you’re sure it’s okay, I’d love to,” Katie said. She opened her school bag and showed me a mobile phone (why does it seem like me and Lance are the only teenagers in East Anglia who don’t have mobile phones?). “I can go and phone my mum and say she doesn’t need to pick me up.”

“Brilliant! So, you really want to come?” I said.

“Of course I do!”

And I smiled.

That was at lunchtime, after which Katie phoned her mum who let her go to my house. Katie then let me borrow her phone and I phoned the house to confirm with Papa that Katie would be coming around after sixth form, and Papa was fine with it (“That’s brilliant, love!” he said).

So now Katie and I are waiting for Papa, and I can’t believe that I am finally going to have a friend around after school, just like everyone else used to when we were younger.

Papa arrives at 4:28pm, pulling into a disabled parking space. Katie and I go over to the car, where we find Lance in the passenger seat and Papa beaming at us both (although I do notice his face seems swollen around the eyes). We get into the back seat and Papa and Lance turn around in their seats to look at us.

“Hi, you must be Katie,” Papa says, reaching out his hand. “I’m Coran, Allura’s father. Well, one of her fathers.”

Katie smiles and shakes his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And this is Lance, my son and Allura’s step brother.”

Lance smiles. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Katie says.

“I’m so glad you two are friends,” Papa says. “Allura finds it so hard to make friends, you see.”

“So do I,” Katie says. “It’s so hard making friends when you’re autistic.”

I nod my head. “It certainly is.”

“Wait, you’re autistic as well?” Lance says. He reaches out his hand and says, “Welcome to the wonky brain club!”

“He’s got ADHD,” I mumble in explanation for why Lance is including Katie in his ‘weird’ group, because we are all neurodivergent and therefore have something in common.

At the same time, Papa says, “Lance!”

But Katie simply bursts out laughing, giving Lance a high-five. “I love it! I should put that on a badge or something.”

As all of this happens, I just smile. Katie is fitting in so well with my family, and it makes me happy. But then I remember that Dad isn’t here, and the smile slides from my face.

We chat to each other for the entire drive home, but it isn’t as awkward as trying to make small talk with other people. When we get home, Katie walks with me as we enter the house, and Papa immediately apologises for the state of the house[2].

“It’s not a problem,” Katie says. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind.”

Papa smiles.

But I’m not smiling anymore. Because I have just remembered the big problem about having a friend around your house: what the hell do you do with them?

Papa must notice my deliberation, because he says, “Why don’t you and Katie watch a video?”

I smile gratefully, and turn back to Katie. “Yeah, do you want to watch a video? What sort of thing do you like? We’ve got all sorts.”

Katie smiles. “I’m a big comedy fan. What sort of funny stuff do you have?”

“Ooh, boy, you’ve hit the jackpot here, Katie!” Lance says, making us jump. “Sorry. But we’ve got shit loads of comedy videos here.”

“Lance!” Papa says.

“Sorry,” Lance says, apologising for swearing, but the smile never leaves his face.

Katie grins. “Do you have _Red Dwarf_?”

And my heart pounds, my stomach cramping with pure happiness. “We’ve got _Red Dwarf_!”

When Katie sees me flapping my hands with a huge grin on my face, she looks a bit confused. Lance decides to explain my weird behaviour.

“Don’t mind her, Katie. Allura and me just love _Red Dwarf_ , don’t we, Papa?”

Papa nods, his eyebrows raised as he obviously remembers the times we have woken him up by getting up really early to watch videos of the series. “You certainly do.”

“Great!” Katie says. “Should we watch that, then?”

I grin. “Yes, let’s go that.”

And so Katie and Lance and I sit together on the sofa and watch a hilarious comedy video, and I feel so happy to finally have a friend around.

 

4

When he gets back from taking Katie home (he took her home at 7:30pm, after we had watched four episodes of _Red Dwarf_ and had beans on toast for tea), Papa immediately goes to the phone. He closes the door so Lance and I can’t hear, but we look at each other, frowning.

“Think he’s phoning the hospital?” Lance says.

I look at my watch, noting that Dad must be out of surgery by now. “I think so. I hope it’s gone well.”

“So do I, sis,” Lance mutters.

After three minutes and forty seconds on the phone, Papa opens the door and walks into the living room. The smile spreading across his face tells us all we need to know.

“All right!” Lance yells, jumping to his feet and hugging Papa.

“In case you hadn’t guessed,” Papa says, trying not to laugh. “The surgery was a complete success. They said he’s in the recovery room right now.”

“That’s excellent!” I say, far more loudly than intended. But I am so happy, a huge amount of stress leaving me right there and then.

And I go over to Papa and hold his hands, and for the first time in days, I feel vaguely optimistic about the future.

I just hope it lasts.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] I don’t understand why we call the process of interpreting a person’s body language and/or facial expressions ‘reading’, because I don’t know how you can read something that isn’t written words. And I know that it is a figure of speech and that is why it doesn’t make sense, but figures of speech are annoying too.

[2] Our house is often messy because Papa is the only one who cleans (I can’t handle the cleaning chemicals, Lance has too much school work and Dad is of course horribly il) and he often feels too ill to do so. So our house is very dusty and everything is a bit grubby.


	13. 16/09/01

Sunday 16th September 2001

1

It is 3:20am and I can’t sleep. Just to make a change.

Of course, my anxiety about Dad and everything in my life is making it difficult to sleep (well, I fell asleep quite easily, thinking about the fun I had with Katie yesterday evening), and even more difficult to stay asleep, but my main reason for sleeplessness this morning is physical.

The cut on the sole of my foot is stinging, hurting right where the stitches were put. Given the amount of time since the stitches were put in, my theory is that they are dissolving. The stitches in my hand sting too, but as that cut is larger, I suppose it’ll take longer to heal.

Still, it is difficult to ignore. And so I sit up in bed and switch on the light, and shuffle so I can see the bottom of my foot. Sure enough, my skin is swollen, and the stitches seem thinner than they did last time I looked. Between the thinning stitches, I notice patches of pink, suggesting that the wound is already healed and is starting to scar.[1] I hope the stitches go away soon, because this itchiness is driving me mad.

At this point, I realise that I’m not going to be able to sleep with this going on. So I might as well do something about it. I get out of bed and grab my crutches, but upon experimentation whilst standing on my sore foot, I notice that I can put far more weight on it than I could before. And this means I might be able to move around with just one crutch for now – which will make carrying things much easier, and also mean only one of my hands will be sore from holding the handles.

With this in mind, I make my way out of my room and across the landing with only one crutch. It feels strange, but is actually much easier than walking with two of them. At first I feel lopsided, but this sorts out by the time I reach the bathroom.

Locking the bathroom door behind me, I rummage through the draws under the sink until I locate the painkillers. Popping the foil packaging, I drop two capsules of aspirin onto the palm of my hand and sip some water from the cold tap, swallowing the pain killers. After that, I go to the toilet and then limp back to my room.

With these anti-inflammatory tablets in my system, I hope the swelling and itching might cease. And I don’t know if it is this or simply the placebo effect[2], but I manage to fall asleep before 4am.

 

2

At 2pm, the hospital visiting hours will open. When Papa phoned the hospital earlier, he learned that Dad is still very groggy, but is on a ward where visitors are permitted as long as we understand he probably won’t be very responsive. But none of us care if Dad speaks or even responds to us, as long as we know he is alive. Of course, we know he is alive (the hospital told us so), but I can’t be the only one who knows I’ll feel better once I actually see Dad for myself.

Papa has decided that we should arrive right at the beginning of the visiting hours, so we all get into the car at 1:45pm and make the drive to the hospital. In the car, everyone is silent – even Lance, who is not usually quiet for very long.

At least until Papa looks at us in the rear view mirror and says, “I’m sure he’ll be fine. There’s no need to worry.”

But his words are hollow, because Papa is clearly as worried as Lance and I. Judging by the way he constantly seems seconds away from breaking down and crying, he might even be worrying more than us.

When we arrive at the hospital car park at 1:57pm, we manage to find a space easily.

“Makes a fucking change,” Lance mutters, and Papa simply raises his eyebrows rather than snapping at him for swearing.

And Lance has a point. Whenever we have visited the hospital, it has been almost impossible to find a disabled parking space – or even a regular parking space, leading to stress and turning up late to appointments. But we manage to park and then Papa is putting the disabled badge on the dashboard and I am reminded of the day we came here to see Dad in Accident and Emergency and we learned the horrible truth about his health problems.

But we don’t go into Accident and Emergency, instead entering the hospital through the front entrance. With Papa and I both limping, it takes us ten minutes of wandering through corridors and going in lifts before we finally find the entrance to Dad’s ward.

I worry that the nurses might be homophobic again, but this nurse has no problem with Papa wanting to visit Dad.

“Just make sure to use the antiseptic hand wash and don’t touch any of the machinery attached to Mr Altea, and you should be fine,” she says, smiling. “Just remember that he had serious brain surgery two days ago, and is on a high dose of morphine and may be very unresponsive.”

Papa nods. “We understand.”

And she lets us onto the ward. We all put the foam had sanitizer on our hands, Papa and I cleaning the handles of our mobility aids just to be safe, and I grimace at the strong medical smell. And then we walk down the ward. Lots of the curtains are drawn around the beds, and voices tell me that other patients have visitors, and nurses walk up and down the ward. Dad’s bed is right at the end, by the big window that shows the view of the car park from our position on the third floor.

And I just stand there, staring at Dad. He has his eyes closed, either asleep or unconscious. A nasal cannula on his face, the tubes up his nostrils and snaking across his face and behind his ears. Most of his forehead is covered in a thick dressing. His top half is naked, the sheet pulled halfway up his chest but still exposing the wires stuck to his chest, connecting him to an ECG machine. A tube leads out from under the sheet and attaches to a bag of what appears to be urine, obviously connected to his catheter. A needle sticks out of the back of his hand, connecting Dad to a bag of IV fluid, there to hydrate him. Dad’s hair is messy and his face is clammy. He looks so ill.

“Alfor?” Papa whispers, creeping closer to him.

He sits on one of the orange hospital chairs, again reminding me of the time we were in Accident and Emergency. Lance sits in the chair on the other side of the bed, and I sit next to Papa.

“Dad?” Lance says.

We sit there in silence, me bouncing my leg up and down in an attempt to stay calm, and wait to see if Dad responds.

His eyelids flicker.

Papa inhales sharply.

“Alfor?”

Dad’s eyelids twitch again. And, slowly, they start to open. Dad looks at Papa, but his eyelids are half open and we can barely see his eyes. He is awake, but he seems vacant. It must be the painkillers. At least, I hope it is just the painkillers.

He doesn’t say anything. He can barely turn his head. But he is looking at Papa, we can all tell.

“Alfor, it’s so good to see you,” Papa says, his voice trembling. He reaches for Dad’s hand (the one that doesn’t have the needle in it) and carefully covers it with his own.

Dad’s mouth twitches into the smallest smile, but it isn’t as lopsided as it was before the operation.

“Dad, we’ve missed you,” Lance says, visibly trembling as he rocks in his seat. “But… I’m so glad you’re okay.”

When I look at Lance’s face, I see tears trickling down his face.

“Don’t cry, love,” Papa says, and he sounds like he’s about to cry.

And Papa gets up and gives Lance a hug. As they hug, I lean closer to Dad and cover his hand with my own just as Papa did. His hand feels cold and I wish he felt warmer.

“I love you, Dad,” I say as quietly as I can.

I don’t like looking at people’s faces, but I glance at Dad’s face again. And I see a tear leak from the corner of his eye and trickle down his temple. And I squeeze his hand, my stomach clenching.

“You’re going to be okay,” I say, ignoring all I read about cancer and brain tumours, just trying to be optimistic like Papa for once. And it doesn’t work for me, but I hope Dad believes me. “I love you.”

Dad gives me one of those weak smiles and another tear runs across his temple.

I wish I could believe what I said. I want Dad to get better so badly. But… statistics don’t lie, and I can’t convince my brain to be optimistic.

But I hope he gets better.

I really, truly do.

 

3

Before we go home after seeing Dad, I ask Papa if we can take a diversion. He agrees, and lets me track down Hunk, my friend from sixth form who has been in hospital with pneumonia for days. I find his ward and wander down it, accompanied by Papa and Lance (they said they didn’t have to come, but I really hate doing new things on my own).

So we walk down a ward full of teenagers and then I see Hunk.

“Allura!” he says, his voice hoarse, and his face just seems to light up.

Hunk looks so poorly, still wearing a nasal cannula, and his skin has a clammy tinge to it like Dad’s. But he’s smiling.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

“Mum and Dad aren’t here yet,” he explains. “Hey, is this your family?”

I nod. Papa and Lance introduce themselves, smiling and shaking hands with Hunk, and I smile too.

“Sorry for not visiting you before now,” I say.

“No, it’s fine. But I’m glad you’re here all the same.”

“How are you feeling?”

Hunk smiles. “Much better. They said I should get discharged in a couple of days. And then I’ll be back to sixth form. Is it lonely in maths without me?”

I nod. “Definitely.”

Then Hunk notices my injuries and he asks about them. And I sigh and my voice shakes as I tell him about my injuries and how I got them. And then I talk about Dad and Hunk smiles sadly and says, “I’m so sorry. I hope he’s okay.”

And I smile weakly and think, _So do I._

4

It is 9:23pm, and I am in the kitchen to get a snack. I am so tired from my awful sleep recently, but I also feel rather wide awake. As I walk through the living room, I find Papa slumped on the sofa bed. This is normal, but there is something about his awkward position that makes me stop.

“Papa? Are you all right?”

Papa looks at me. He looks so tired, his muscles still and his posture all wrong. “Uh… n-not really.” He blinks and rubs his eyes. “Relapse.”

Now I understand. Papa has obviously gone into a MS relapse, probably from the stress of all of this. they make him feel so awful and it is always horrible for everyone involved.

“Will you need the wheelchair tomorrow?” I ask.

“Think so. Allura, c-can you help me take my AFO[3] off?”

I nod, and kneel by the side of the sofa bed. I carefully pull up the leg of his trousers and unfasten the strap on his brace. Then I slip off his shoe and pull the brace off, letting his limp foot drop.

“Thank you,” Papa whispers as I put the brace on the sideboard.

“Not a problem,” I say. “Is there anything you need?”

Papa shakes his head. Still, I put the blanket over him before I head upstairs.

This is bad. Papa relapsing is the last thing we need. I just hope he comes out of the relapse quickly.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] Some people might be devastated to find a thick scar on their skin, especially if you are black like me, because the scar tissue stands out so sharply against our dark skin. However, I have so many scars from injuries caused by accidents and meltdowns that I am used to it, and honestly don’t care.

[2] The placebo effect is something that was noticed in clinical studies, in which people could react to a placebo (a non-drug option) in the same way to the actual drug if they were told it was real. It just goes to show how strange the human mind can be.

[3] AFO stands for Ankle Foot Orthosis. This is the proper name for the ankle brace Papa wears, the one that stops his foot dropping.


	14. 18/09/01

Tuesday 18th September 2001

 

1

I’m with Katie, and we’re holding hands. She doesn’t have a black eye and I don’t have any stitches. It is snowing and we are dressed in winter clothes (I have a hat with ear flaps and Katie has a hat with a pompom on top), and our hands are connected with gloves. When I exhale, I can see my breath in the air. Everything is tranquil, snowflakes falling from the sky.

Katie leans her head back to catch one on her tongue and we both laugh. She looks at me and she’s smiling, and we’re both so happy.

But then… no, now all I can see is smoke. Huge clouds of dust and smoke form clouds in the air, obscuring my vision. But then there are screams, horrible, horrified screams and people crying. I look up in time to see an aeroplane go crashing into one of the Twin Towers. Smoke and dust. Screams of terror. Huge amounts of paper fluttering through the air. Figures falling from the windows and plummeting down.

And I’m so scared. Why is this happening? I don’t understand.

What is going on?!

 

2

I awake, my heart racing. It always annoys me in the media when someone awakes from a bad dream and sits bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath with wide eyes. Because that doesn’t happen in real life. When I awake from bad dreams, I just lay there with my heart pounding, confused and wondering if what happened was real or not.

But I know this was a dream. I was dreaming about being with Katie (even though it hasn’t snowed in months and months and Katie and I have never been anywhere snowy together) but then the dream turned into my memories of seeing the September 11 attacks on the television, playing on the fear I felt when I saw the footage over and over inside my brain.

The media are calling it 9/11[1]. I know we are never going to forget what happened.

But I wish I could un-see that footage. It was horrible. Even though I couldn’t cry and felt disconnected from what I was seeing due to having low empathy, it was so horrible to see. I actually saw people dying, heard the screams of the people there seeing it in real life, and the sight of that building collapsing is one of the most terrifying things I have ever seen. I wish I could wipe the memory from my brain.

But I can’t. You can’t just erase your memories. You’re stuck with them, even when they are horrible. Because that is how human brains work. And as much as I love human biology, I hate how awfully our brains function.

 

3

When I go downstairs, I find Papa still on the sofa bed, in almost exactly the same position as last night. He looks so awfully ill, his face pale (and looking incredibly white against his bright ginger hair), his hair greasy and his eyelids drooping like he can’t quite focus his eyes[2]. He looks up when I enter the room and smiles.

“Hi, love,” he mumbles.

“Hello, Papa. Have you been in that position all night?”

Papa nods his head slightly. “Y-Yeah, I can’t… quite move.”

I start to click my fingers, sighing. “Are you in pain?”

Papa hesitates, closing his eyes. “Quite a bit.”

“Is… there anything I can do to help?”

Papa screws his eyes up tighter. He finds it so humiliating when he has to ask for help. Like last year, when he went through a horrible relapse and Dad had to help him use the toilet. And I understand why, because it is very embarrassing to need help with basic things, even though it shouldn’t be embarrassing to ask for help.

“Um… maybe. C-Could you and L-Lance help me get up?”

“Of course,” I say, and I hobble up the stairs to get Lance.

I find my brother wandering out of the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair and yawning.

“Papa needs help,” I say.

“Oh shit,” Lance says. “Is the relapse really bad?”

I nod and Lance sighs. But he doesn’t complain, simply following me down the stairs and back into the living room.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” Papa says, looking like he wants to cry.

“No, it’s okay,” Lance says, giving a very forced smile. “So, what do you want help with?”

First of all, we help Papa sit upright. We both hold his arms just above the elbow and heave Papa into an upright position, letting him lean back against the back of the sofa and screw his eyes up. He exhales slowly, clearly in a lot of pain.

“Do you need some painkillers?” Lance asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I think so. But first… can you help me to the t-toilet?” Papa blushes, his extremely pale face flushing dark red. “Just to the… room. I’m okay to a-actually go on own. God, this is e-embarrassing.”

Lance and I glance at each other, and I know we both agree with him.

So our next task is to help Papa into the downstairs toilet. Which we do, waiting outside the door for him as he uses the toilet. When he is finished, we help him walk back to the sofa bed. Lance then gets Papa a glass of water and some cereal, whilst I get him some painkillers.

We stay with him as he takes the tablets and eats clumsily, looking so tired and in so much pain.

“Will you be okay on your own today?” Lance asks. “I mean, it’s not like you can use the power chair indoors, is it?”

Papa relies heavily on his electric wheelchair during relapses, but he can’t use it indoors; the doorways are too narrow, so he has no choice but to only use it outside the house. But his ability to walk gets so bad during relapses that it becomes almost impossible. Even with two people holding his arms and using two elbow crutches, Papa is prone to falling. Which means he has been known to crawl around the house when having a relapse, something he finds utterly humiliating.

“I’ll be okay,” Papa says, not fooling either of us. “I’m sure I’ll g-get more mobile as the day goes on. C-Can you just leave me some food and – shit! How’re you g-gonna get to school?”

And I understand exactly what he means. Papa is in no state to drive us, but school is quite a long way away. And I’m not up to walking far on my crutch.

I personally think we should just stay home, but I know Papa won’t let us.

“What about next door?” Lance suggests, talking about our neighbours. They have a daughter who started year 7 earlier this month, and they drive her to school too. Of course, that doesn’t solve getting me to sixth form, but it’s better than nothing. “Maybe we can beg them for a lift?”

Papa looks so humiliated by this whole affair, but he manages to smile. “W-Worth a try. Can you go… Lance?”

Lance nods and rushes off. And I just stand there and stare at Papa, wishing something in our lives could ever go easily.

 

3

In the end, our neighbour drives us to Lance’s and her daughter’s school. She feels sorry for us, especially when we explain that Dad is in hospital.

“I wondered why I hadn’t seen him around,” Mrs Bailey says.

I am in the back seat next to Jane, her eleven year old daughter, whilst Lance sits beside her in the passenger seat.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“We… hope so,” Lance says.

Mr and Mrs Bailey have never been homophobic, not even when they first moved in five years ago and Dad and Papa introduced themselves, and they way they held hands made it obvious they were a couple. So Lance knew it was safe to approach her (apparently, Mrs Bailey hugged him and called him ‘dear’ and said ‘of course I can drive you. And please tell Coran that I’m always here to help if he needs me’) for help.

“Thank you for this,” I say. “We really didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s not a problem, dear,” Mrs Bailey says.

I see Jane looking at me and smile awkwardly.

“Um, I’m a sixth form student, so…” I trail off, not knowing quite what to say.

But I see Mrs Bailey’s reflection in the rear view mirror smile. “It’s fine. Of course I can drop you off too.”

I smile, relieved. “Thank you.”

After dropping Lance and Jane off at their high school, she drives me to the sixth form. As I get out of the car, I smile the biggest smile I can manage and say, “Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing, dear,” Mrs Bailey says.

But it is something. This really means a lot to us. Our neighbour helped us out even though we rarely speak.

I’ve met a lot of horrible people in my life, but situations like this prove some people are good.

 

4

At lunchtime, Katie and I head to the library together. With only one hand on my crutch, I am free to hold my friend’s hand. And we do hold hands, fingers interlocked as we slowly walk through the sixth form, enjoying the calmness that comes with most other students being in the canteen.

At least, until we aren’t alone anymore.

“Lezzers!”

We spin around and see Kate and her gang walking towards us. I groan and Katie sighs.

“Piss off, Kate,” she says.

“Oh shut the fuck up, you lezzer,” Kate spits.

“We’re not lesbians,” I say. “And if we were, so what? That isn’t a bad thing?”

Kate laughs, but it’s a horrible laugh that makes my stomach clench.

“You’re so pathetic, both of you.”

And Kate starts walking faster. Katie turns to run, but I hold her hand tighter as if to say, _No, we should stand up to her._

But my plan doesn’t work. because Kate walks towards me and kicks my crutch, and I overbalance and crash to the floor. My elbow smacks the ground and I cry out, tears stinging my eyes as I click my fingers to try and control the pain and panic that surge through me all at once.

“Pathetic,” Kate snarls as her friends laugh, and the tears spill down my face.

“You fucking bitch,” Katie says, and her voice is low and quiet, almost like a growl, and is totally unlike her.

Kate steps closer and shoves Katie in the chest. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“I called you a bitch. How dare you hurt my friend?!”

“Because she’s a fucking pathetic piece of shit,” Kate says, and I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe, my sore elbow throbbing.

And Katie says nothing, before letting go of my hand, stepping forwards, and punching Kate hard in the face. Kate stumbles backwards, screaming as her hands go up to her face.

“You cow!” she cries.

But Katie just smiles and rubs her knuckles, which are going red, as she crouches down beside me. Through my tears, I stare at her, unable to believe that Katie just punched my main bully for being mean to me.

She cares about me so much. It’s amazing.

 

5

Unfortunately, Katie gets detention. Fortunately, Kate gets detention too. I try to explain what happened, but all the staff cares about is what happened, and not what happened in the lead up to fight.

But I am still so happy Katie defended me like that. So when I get ready to leave at the end of the school day, I squeeze her hands and say, “Thank you so much. I think you were very brave.”

And Katie blushes and says, “Don’t mention it.”

* * *

Footnotes

[1] In American, they write the date differently to us in Britain. We write the format Day/Month/Year, whereas they write it Month/Day/Yeah. So if a British person came up with the 9/11 name for the September 11th attacks, it would be written 11/9. The cultural differences in different English speaking countries can be rather confusing sometimes.

[2] One of the more common symptoms of Multiple Sclerosis is problems with your eyes. Because MS involves damage to your nerves, the optic nerve is one of those nerves that can get damaged, leading to eye damage. This was one of the first symptoms Papa had, in which his vision went black for several seconds in one eye. To this day, he regularly gets moments when his vision blurs and he gets black flashes in front of his eyes. So even though it is quite distressing to see when Papa is clearly having eye problems, we are all used to it.


	15. 20/09/01

Thursday 20th September 2001

 

1

Papa is feeling a bit better today; well, he still feels awful, but he is well enough to drive Lance and I to school. Mrs Bailey came and knocked on our door at 8:10am, offering to take us again, but a very groggy Papa answered the door and told her how grateful he was, but he was okay to take us today.

And despite how bad he feels, Papa drove very well. He had to focus more and didn’t have the music on so he could concentrate, but Lance and I were more than happy to sit in silence.

Arriving at the school car park, Lance gives Papa a hug and me a wave before jumping out of the car and running over to his friends. Even in a messed up emotional state like this right now, I feel a twinge of jealousy[1], and that makes me feel like a bad person. So I try to be nice and think about how it must be so good for Lance to have the support of his friends through times like this.

“Off to sixth form then,” Papa says, his voice still not quite right. During a relapse, he has to force his words out, a lot like how I have to when I have had a meltdown and my brain feels foggy.

I smile. “Yes, off to sixth form.”

But before Papa drives off and I know I can’t speak to him, I say, “Are you really feeling better today?”

“Yes, love, I am,” Papa says. “I mean, I’m still exhausted and in pain, but my vision is clear and I can actually move now. I’m sure I’m on the mend.”

“That’s good,” I say. I hesitate, but then say it. “Papa, are you going to visit Dad today?”

He smiles slightly. “Yes, love. I’m going to visit him the moment the visiting hours start. And I hope he’ll be more responsive this time and we can actually have a chat. I really miss chatting to him.”

“Me too,” I say.

“I’m sure he’ll get better, love,” Papa says.

And I want to believe him, I really do.

“I hope so,” I whisper.

And Papa and I drive to sixth form in silence.

 

2

When I enter my maths classroom, I am satisfied to see Kate with a black eye. She has clearly tried to disguise it with makeup, but it hasn’t worked very well. And I know it is bad to laugh at injured people, but remembering how Katie, an autistic girl half her size, managed to smash her in the face hard enough to leave bruises makes me want to burst out laughing with delight. Instead I cover my mouth with my hand and concentrate on my work.

I am grateful for my pass at the end of class, because I get to leave five minutes early and completely avoid Katie and her gang on my way to my next class: biology. And there is a reason why I love taking biology, because I can sit next to Katie, my best friend.

The classroom is empty when I arrive, so I slip into my seat and take out my homework (it is a mess thanks to my lack of glasses and my sleep deprivation, but I think I did acceptably well). I stim by bouncing my leg, studying everything I like about this classroom. I take particular notice of the following things:

  * The fish tank. The filter makes a lovely bubbling noise and the fish are pretty to look at.
  * The models of the inside of an ear and a cross section of an eye. They are absolutely fascinating, and I don’t find them gross in the slightest.
  * The microscopes. I struggle to use microscopes due to the bright light inside making my eyes hurt, so Katie does that bit when we do work with them.



And I would take notice of more things, but I am distracted by the arrival of Katie. My best friend grins and sits beside me, and I catch sight of her swollen knuckles from where she punched Kate. One thing we have discovered since the fight yesterday is most of the girls now hate us both (but especially Katie), but the boys seem to find Katie cool.

“Kate was giving me horrible looks in maths,” I say.

“Yeah, her friends were looking like they want to murder me in physics,” Katie says, but she is smiling. “If we just ignore them, I’m sure this’ll blow over in no time.”

I smile. “I hope so.”

And when I realise I said those exact words to Papa earlier, I start thinking about Dad and the smile slides from my face.

 

3

After a rather normal day at sixth form, I sit on the sofa bed, pretending to do my homework but instead watching TV.

What with everything that has happened with Dad, I have just lost interest in basically everything. Without my glasses it hurts to read and the pain that throbs through my healing foot and hand make concentrating almost impossible, and I just cannot summon the interest anymore. So my homework has gradually been going down in quality and I find that I really don’t care.

So it is 6:13pm and I am watching _The Simpsons_ on the TV and Papa is slumped on the sofa bed looking ill but better than yesterday and Lance sits on the armchair with his legs slung over the arm and everything is content as we watch the American cartoon.

When _The Simpsons_ finishes, Lance puts on a _Red Dwarf_ video instead. I really should be studying, but I’m just so tired and Dad is more important than homework and I just want to relax and watch the amazing comedy that is _Red Dwarf_. So we sit there for hours, working our way through series III[2], a series I love because I think this is where the programme went from funny to hilarious, and we sit there and laugh and try to forget about how shit our lives are right now.

But at 9:15pm, there is a knock on the front door. I jump and Papa flinches, and Lance jumps to his feet.

“I’ll get it,” he says.

“Who on Earth knocks at this time?” Papa say, his eyes closed (until he flinched, I thought he was asleep).

I hear Lance open the door, and then he says, “Hey, what’re you doing here? Are you okay? You look awful.”

“C-Can I talk to Allura?”

I freeze, my stomach clenching. It is Katie, and she sounds like she might be crying. What the hell is going on?

“Sure, come on in,” Lance says, and the door closes.

And then Katie Holt walks into the living room. She looks awful. She has clearly been crying, and trembles with adrenaline and exertion, because she has clearly been running. She has a rucksack on her back and her shoelaces are untied. She looks terrified.

“Katie…” I whisper, not knowing what to say.

“Hello, Katie love,” Papa says, but then he opens his eyes and sees what I see. “Oh dear. Is everything all right?”

Katie shakes her head, staring down at the floor. Her arms flap frantically, her fingers flailing, and she rocks on the balls of her feet. “I don’t…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lance says, putting a comforting hand on Katie’s shoulder. “You can talk to us.”

“Thanks,” Katie says, and she screws up her eyes. “It’s just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Papa struggles into a sitting position and stares at her. “Katie, what are you trying to say? Have… you run away from home?”

Katie nods. Then she shakes her head. Finally, she shrugs her shoulders.

“Look, love, just sit down,” Papa says. “Sit down and tell us all about it. If you want, I can kick Lance and Allura out and you can just talk to me.”

“Thanks. But it’s fine,” Katie mumbles, and she takes off her rucksack and hugs it to her chest as she sits on the foot end of the sofa bed. “And… I think I can tell you. It’s just… hard.”

Her voice thickens and I know she is going to cry again. I shuffle closer towards her and hold out my hand. Katie takes it and squeezes tightly, her fingers trembling.

“Katie, what happened?” I say, clicking the fingers of my free hand.

Still stood up, Lance bounces on the balls of his feet and swings his arms, frowning as he watches Katie nearly crying. And Papa just stares at my friend, struggling to keep himself upright.

And Katie takes a deep, shaky breath before blurting out, “Mum’s in hospital!”

And she breaks down sobbing, wrenching her hand from mine and burying her face in her hands. She cries and cries, her shoulders heaving, her breathing shuddering and tears leaking through the gaps between her fingers.

I have no idea what to do (I’m really bad at comforting crying people), but Papa moves awkwardly and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Ssh, it’s all right, love,” he says, his voice soothing. “Just try to calm down.”

Papa keeps mumbling this sort of thing, and, after two minutes and thirteen seconds, Katie manages to calm her breathing. She takes her hands from her face, but tears still dribble down her now red face.

“Sorry,” Katie says, voice wobbling.

“No, it’s fine. You don’t have to talk right now, but if you do, we’re here to listen,” Papa says, and Katie manages a weak smile.

She sighs, hugging her rucksack tighter. “My… my step-dad hurt her.”

“Shit,” Lance says.

I look at Papa, my stomach clenching. Does she mean what I think she means?

“Katie?” Papa says.

And Katie screws her eyes up as she starts to speak, rambling so fast I can barely keep up with what she says, “He, he pushed her. She fell down the stairs. She was bleeding and he freaked out and I was screaming and then he called an ambulance and acted all horrified like it was an accident and the paramedics came and he threatened me so I didn’t tell them the truth and then he stormed out and locked me in the house and I was so scared and I had a meltdown and, and…” Katie gasps, more tears running down her face. She digs her fingers into her hair, groaning like she is in pain. “And I realised I can’t live with him anymore now he nearly killed Mum so I packed a few things and I got out of one of the windows and ran for it. And… this is the only place I can think of that my step-dad doesn’t know about and…”

“Ssh, it’s okay,” Papa says. “Would you like a hug?”

Katie nods, and Papa wraps his arms around her.

“Fuck, I can’t believe it,” Lance says. “What’re you going to do?”

“I dunno,” Katie mumbles into Papa’s shoulder. “I just can’t go back.”

“Can she stay here?” I ask Papa.

And I expect Papa to argue with me, but he just nods. “I don’t know what we’ll do in the long term, but you can stay for a couple of days, all right?”

Katie pulls away from Papa, a real smile on her face despite the tears shining on her cheeks. “Really? Oh thank you so much, Mr Smythe! You don’t know how much this means to me. Thank you!”

And I grab Papa’s hand and squeeze it between both of my own. “Thank you, Papa, thank you.”

“Well, what else could I do?” he says, a sad smile on his face. “I wasn’t about to send her back to her step dad or chuck her out on the street. Katie, you’re more than welcome at our home. And call me Coran, love.”

Katie laughs, scrubbing at her face with the cuff of her sleeve. And she says, “Thank you,” over and over again, happy yet sad both at the same time.

 

4

With Katie staying the night, a problem of sleeping arrangements arose. Our house has three bedrooms plus a sofa bed in the living room. Papa still can’t use the stairs so the sofa bed is his, whilst Lance and I only have one bed in each of our rooms. Which meant Papa said Katie could have the double bed in his and Dad’s room. So that is where Katie went at 11pm when we finally went to bed, and has been since.

But it is now 11:10pm and I am certain I’m not the only one who is struggling to fall asleep. I just can’t stop thinking about Katie and Colleen. I can’t believe William is such an evil bastard to beat up his wife and threaten his step-daughter – and suddenly I’m wondering if William was the one who gave Katie that black eye that caused our argument and I want to be sick. He’s so evil. We need to get him arrested.

I roll over, pressing my face against the pillow and trying not to scream from the anger at knowing my best friend is in such emotional pain. But I am distracted by a knock on my bedroom door. I sit up sharply, switching on my lamp.

“Allura?” Katie whispers through the door. “Can I come in?”

I don’t speak, but limp across the room (I can just about walk without my crutch now, but it is slow and laboured and hurts my other leg) and unlock the door. I open it and see Katie stood in the doorway, holding the pillows and duvet from Dad and Papa’s bed.

“Can I camp out in here with you?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say. “Come in.”

And Katie follows me into the room and I shut the door behind her.

“Do you mind being on the floor or do you want the bed?” I ask.

“No, you have the bed,” Katie says. “It’s your room and you’re injured. And I’ll be fine on the floor.”

Flopping back onto my bed, I watch Katie lay the duvet on the floor and then cover herself with half of it, making herself look like she is in a sleeping bag. And she puts a pillow behind her head and snuggles into her makeshift bed.

“Thanks,” she says. “It’s just, I feel a bit... vulnerable on my own. William could be anywhere and I’m scared he’ll track me down and hurt me too.”

“No he won’t,” I say, doing my best to reassure her. “He doesn’t know where you are, and we’ll protect you even if he does come. I promise.”

Katie smiles. “Thank you, Allura. You’re an amazing friend.”

And I smile back, hoping everything will turn out all right.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] I have always felt a bit jealous of Lance for having friends. Up until I met Katie and Hunk, I had literally never had a friend before in my life. And I could never quite understand how my younger brother made friends so easily when it seemed like an impossibility to me.

[2] _Red Dwarf’_ s series are numbered using Roman numerals instead of numbers. I don’t know why, but I quite like it. So it is series 3 we watch, even though it is called series III.


	16. 21/09/01

Friday 21st September 2001

 

1

When I awake, I am lying on my stomach with my arm dangling over the edge of my bed. My hand has gone numb and I wince, hating the sensation. But I forget all about it when I open my eyes and see Katie.

Because then I remember everything that happened yesterday. Katie coming to my house in tears with a bag on her back. Katie telling us about how her mum is in hospital because her step-dad pushed her down the stairs. Katie staying with us because she is too scared to go home. Katie coming into my room, too scared to sleep alone, and falling asleep on my bedroom floor. Thinking about it all at once almost makes me cry, and I click my fingers.

But I can’t help but stare at Katie. She looks so peaceful as she sleeps, her hand tucked under the side of her face and her hair fanning all over her pillow. But her eyelids are still puffy from crying and the signs of her black eye still linger on her face.

A minute after I awoke, my alarm starts blaring and I scramble to turn it off. I can’t remember the last time I awoke this late. I have had at least seven hours of sleep, and for once don’t get hit by sleep deprivation the moment I wake up. But the anxiety still pummels me in the stomach and I want to punch myself in the head to get rid of it. But I don’t.

The alarm wakes up Katie. She rolls over and groans, rubbing her eyes. For a few seconds, she seems confused, obviously startled by the vastly different surroundings. But then she props herself up on her elbows and looks at me.

“Allura?” she says.

“Hi,” I say, not sure what else to say. “Do you remember why you’re here?”

Katie nods, and she looks so sad. “Depressingly, yes. But, thank you for letting me sleep in here with you. It really helped.”

I nod. “I’m so glad. Um… should we get ready for sixth form?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Katie says, groaning.

But as we both get out of bed, there is a knock on the door. My door is unlocked after Katie came into the room in the night, so Lance pokes his head into the room.

“Hey, ‘Lura, Katie, Papa wants to talk to you,” he says.

I look at Katie. “Change of plan, then.”

So we follow Lance downstairs, me barely having to use my crutch anymore. Hopefully by tomorrow, I will be able to walk unaided. In the living room, Papa is sat on the sofa bed, but he appears to be wearing different clothes; Lance must have got him clean clothes earlier. He looks quite a bit better, but is clearly still relapsing.

“Morning, girls,” he says, rubbing his eyes. Katie opens her mouth to say something, but Papa quickly adds, “You don’t need to thank me again, love.”

Katie blushes, obviously wondering how he knew she was going to say that. I smile.

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask.

“Well, I don’t want you to go to sixth form today,” Papa says.

My eyes widen. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking Katie to the police station, and I guess you want to tag along.”

“The… police station?” Katie says, and her hands start to wring together. “Coran, you’re not going to give me back to my step-dad, are you? Please, don’t let him find me, I can’t—”

“Whoa, calm down, love,” Papa says. “I’m not letting him get his hands on you. I want to take you and tell the police about what your step-dad did, and with your statements and the truth about your mum’s injuries, they might be able to arrest him.”

Katie stares at Papa. I see her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t look sad. Seconds later, she has dashed forwards and pulled Papa into a hug. “Thank you thank you thank you. You’re such an amazing person, Coran.”

“Ssh, it’s all right,” Papa says, rubbing her back. “We’ll sort this out for you, love. I promise.”

And Lance and I look at each other and smile. Katie is right; Papa is an amazing person. And I hope Papa is right, and that we can help Katie after all.

 

2

Papa drops Lance off at school, and then we all drive to the police station. Katie is trembling as she sits beside me on the backseat, her hands stimming frantically.

“It’ll be okay,” Papa keeps saying, but none of us seem to believe him. Including Papa himself.

When we arrive at the police station, I have to stay in the reception area. Which makes sense, given how this has nothing to do with me. But they let Papa stay with Katie, taking them both through the station and away from me.

In the reception area, I sit on an old sofa and jiggle my legs up and down. I have never been in a police station before, and I find it quite scary. There is a small TV mounted to the wall that plays the rolling news, talking about crimes happening all over the country. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling very vulnerable.

Papa’s watch is tight around my wrist and its ticking noise is comforting. I count the seconds, my eyes closed, hoping that when Katie and Papa come back they will have good news. Things need to work out for Katie. That horrible man needs to be arrested.

After an hour and thirty seven minutes, Katie and Papa return. Katie appears to have been crying, but smiles.

“Good news, love,” Papa says, squeezing my hand. “They said this is very serious and are making plans to arrest William. If we’re lucky, he’ll get arrested for grievous bodily harm.”

I hold out my hand and Katie holds it, squeezing my sweaty hand with her even sweatier one.

“I hope it works out,” I say. “He deserves to go to prison for a long time.”

Katie smiles. “I know. And thanks for your support, both of you. It means so much.”

“I thought I asked you to stop thanking me so much,” Papa says, smiling. “But you’re welcome, love.”

And I smile and squeeze her hand again.

 

3

Taking advantage of us being out of sixth form, Papa drives us to the hospital so we can visit Colleen the moment visiting hours begin. We make our way through the hospital after getting directions to find Colleen Holt, walking in silence as I limp and Papa steers his electric wheelchair through the winding corridors of the hospital.

We find Colleen’s ward, a ward that seems to house people who have all experience injuries like hers. We creep down the ward, and then Colleen notices Katie and the pair starts crying.

“Katie!”

“Mum!”

I just stare at Colleen, horrified by her appearance. Her arms are covered in blue-green bruises, a dressing covering her upper left arm and a cast around her right wrist. Her left leg is in traction, suspended in the air with a cast surrounding her ankle. There is tape across the bridge of her nose and stitches in her forehead. But she smiles broadly as Katie leans down to kiss her cheek, and they hold hands.

“It’s so good to see you,” Katie says.

“What happened to you?” Colleen says. “When I woke up after surgery, I was trying to find out what happened to you and I phoned the house but no one answered and I was so scared…”

She’s sobbing hysterically, and a nurse wanders over to tell us to either stop stressing Colleen out or to leave. So Katie strokes her mother’s hand and even though they’re both still crying, Colleen manages to calm herself slightly.

“I was okay, Mum,” Katie says. “Really.”

And for the first time, Colleen seems to notice Papa and I. “Oh, it’s you two. Why’re you here?”

Katie glances at Papa and I, and Papa nods, whispering, “Let me explain.”

And so Papa tells Colleen about what happened, including Katie’s escape and visiting us and staying the night and our trip to the police station. And when he has finished, Colleen is crying again, but silently this time.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“It’s nothing,” Papa says.

We decide to give Katie some time alone with her mum, so Papa and I go and hang around in the corridor outside the ward, not wanting to intrude on their important family moment.

“She’s so injured,” I whisper. “She’s lucky to be alive.”

Papa sighs and squeezes my hand. “I know. But she’s alive. And they’ll get through this together.

 

4

After ten minutes, Katie wanders out of the ward. Tears are running down her face, but she’s smiling.

“I’m so glad I got to see Mum,” she says. And she raises her eyebrows as she says, “Thank you for taking me.”

Papa realises what she is doing and chuckles. “You’re welcome, love. While we’re here, do you mind if we go and see Allura’s dad?”

“Of course not,” Katie says.

And we head off to Dad’s ward.

As we travel there, having to take several lifts in the process, I say, “Was Dad looking better last time you saw him, Papa?”

“Much better, love,” he says. “Of course, it’s going to take a while to recover from brain surgery, but he’s certainly getting there.”

“I hope he’ll be okay,” Katie says.

I look at her and grasp her hand. “Thank you.”

Dad is still in the same bed, so we find him easily. And I agree with Papa; he already looks so much better. His eyes are properly open and he seems more with it. A nurse must have washed his hair, because it looks soft and springy again. He is propped up further in bed, and the dressing on his head is smaller. And it nearly makes me cry to see him so clearly recovering.

“Hi, love,” Papa says, leaning forwards awkwardly in his wheelchair to kiss Dad on the cheek.

“Hello, Dad,” I say, waving.

Dad smiles at us. “Hi, both… of you.”

His speech still isn’t right, but he sounds much better than he did before the surgery. His mouth isn’t drooping so much either.

“This is Katie,” I say, and Katie awkwardly waggles her fingers. “She’s the friend I was telling you about.”

“Y-Yeah, I remember,” Dad says, smiling at her.

“Hello,” Katie says.

Papa decides not to tell Dad about the situation with Katie, not wanting to stress him out further whilst he is still recovering. So we talk about other things instead, such as sixth form and all sorts of things Papa can think of.

We stay with Dad until we need to leave to pick Lance up from school, at which point Papa and I reluctantly say goodbye to Papa. On the way out of the hospital, Katie says, “You Dad’s a nice person.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I hope you’ll be able to meet properly when he’s out of the hospital.”

“Me too.”

 

5

By 6:31pm this evening, Lance is still moaning about how we went to see Dad without him. Eventually, Papa gives him some ice cream from the back of the freezer just to shut him up. He gives Katie and I some ice cream too, and we all sit in front of the TV and watch _Red Dwarf_ as Papa slumps on the sofa bed and tries to sleep.

Katie seems a lot happier today, presumably because she went to the police and saw her mum, but she is still nervous. And given that her step-dad is an abuser, it makes perfect sense that she can’t relax easily, as horrible as that sounds, because she has become used to him being abusive. I hope they arrest him. I really do.

At 7:01pm, the phone rings and Lance rushes out into the hallway to answer it (I don’t know why he is so eager). Soon, he is talking and then yells, “Papa, it’s a police officer.”

Katie and I stare at each other. we listen to Lance tell the person on the other end of the line that it’ll take Papa a while to get to the phone, and watch Papa stumble out to the hallway, leaning heavily on two walking sticks. The TV is still playing the comedy, but no one is listening anymore. But then Papa shuts the door so we can’t hear his conversation, and Katie and I hold hands.

After four minutes, Papa stumbles back into the living room and collapses onto the sofa bed.

“What?” Lance says.

And an exhausted Papa smiles. “They raided your house. William was back there and they arrested him. He’s at the police station.”

“GET IN!” Lance bellows, racing around the room and jumping up and down.

And Katie holds both of my hands and we smile even though she’s crying. This is amazing. Something good has happened. Katie is safe.


	17. 23/09/01

Sunday 23rd September 2001

 

1

For the first time in ages, I am not awoken by my own circadian rhythm[1] or my alarm clock; instead, I am woken up by someone knocking on my bedroom door. I groan and sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes, and glance at my clock. It is 9:12am, far later than when I usually get up. A few seconds later, the person knocks again.

“Who’s there?” I call.

“Me,” Katie says.

I smile and climb out of bed. By the time I reach the door, I realise that I left my crutch behind. But even though I still have a slight limp, I think it’s rather obvious that I can walk without it now. Which is a good thing.

I open the door and smile at Katie. My best friend has been staying with us for the last few days, and will only leave when her mum gets out of hospital and they go home together. But none of us mind having Katie here. In fact, I quite like it.

“Morning,” she says, wagging her fingers at me.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Sorry to wake you up, but Lance has decided to make pancakes for everyone and we didn’t want to leave you out.”

I love pancakes. “Brilliant. Let’s go then.”

As I follow Katie across the landing, she looks down at my feet.

“Hey, you’re not using your crutch anymore.”

“I don’t think I need it anymore,” I say. Katie smiles.

We trek downstairs and head into the kitchen. I find Lance wearing an apron and standing in front of the oven, pouring batter into a large frying pan. Papa is sat on a dining chair next to him, and he appears to be giving Lance instructions.

“Morning, sis,” Lance says, glancing at me before going back to pouring the batter.

I wave awkwardly. “Why exactly are you making pancakes?”

We usually only have them on birthdays (and on Shrove Tuesday, obviously).

“I just fancied them,” Lance says. “And we’ve got a house guest, so it seemed like a nice idea.”

“Yeah, but only on the condition that I watched him,” Papa says.

“Are you calling me dangerous in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

Lance splutters with laughter. Katie giggles and Papa grins, and I explain, “The last four times Lance has tried to cook on his own, he forgets what he is doing and sets the smoke alarm off. It’s inevitably a disaster.”

“But not this time,” Papa says. “Because I’m supervising him.”

“Okay, let’s stop shitting on Lance and have our fucking pancakes,” Lance says.

“Lance!”

“Sorry.”

Katie giggles, and it makes me so happy to see her happy. As Lance and Papa continue to bicker, Lance clumsily flips a pancake and soon is sliding it onto a plate.

“Here, you can have the first one,” he says, holding out the plate to Katie.

She smiles. “Thank you. It smells delicious.”

Katie sprinkles some lemon juice and sugar onto her pancake, and she wanders into the dining room. I follow her, sitting opposite her.

“Did you sleep well?”

Katie nods, cutting up her pancake. Unlike the two previous nights, Katie actually slept in Dad and Papa’s bed rather than on my bedroom floor.

“Yeah, it’s a very comfy bed.”

“Katie,” I say, lowering my voice (or, at least, trying to). “How are you feeling?”

Katie shrugs, putting a piece of pancake into her mouth. “I’m okay. I’m still worried about Mum.”

“I understand. I’m worried about my dad.”

“I hope they’ll both be fine,” Katie says, and her voice gets thicker. She’s crying.

“Please don’t cry,” I say. “I’m sure they’ll get better.”

Katie smiles weakly, wiping tears from her face. “I know. Thanks.”

We would say more to each other, but are cut off when Lance saunters into the room, singing a fanfare and holding a plate with another pancake.

“Your Majesty, your pancake is served,” he says, bowing to me and putting the plate on the table.

“Weirdo,” I say, and we both splutter with laughter. “Thank you, Lance.”

“No problem,” he says, hurtling back into the kitchen.

Soon, all four of us are sat around the table, eating pancakes. Lance only made one each, so we have to eat cereal to actually fill ourselves up, but the pancakes are still delicious.

Papa is looking better still, and he might come out of the relapse in the next couple of days.

“Um, I was thinking, do you want to go to Church today?” he says.

Lance and I stare at him.

“Church?” Lance says.

“But Dad isn’t here,” I say.

“I know that,” Papa says, looking awkward. “But… your dad hasn’t been to his church for a while, and I thought we could go and see everyone there, to tell them about Dad. I think they’d appreciate, and Dad too.”

After hesitating, Lance says, “Yeah… yeah, we could do that.”

I find Church painfully boring, but I don’t say this. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to come, Katie,” Papa says, looking at her.

“No, its fine,” she says. “I’m not religious, but I find it quite interesting in religious places like Churches and Mosques. So I don’t mind tagging along. If that’s okay.”

“No, it’s fine,” Papa says. “Should we go around one?”

We all nod and Papa smiles, even though he slightly looks like he wants to cry.

 

2

Papa once told me the story of when Dad first took him to his Church. It’s a lovely story, so I might as well share it.

_“I was so nervous,” Papa said, and I understood why; after all, the last time he was in a church, everyone was being homophobic and this was the main reason why he stopped believing in God. “But your dad was so kind. We’d been in a relationship for years; you were five and Lance was three, and I’d been living in Britain for what felt like forever, but I hadn’t set food in his Church. But one day, your dad invited me to come and I was terrified, but we took you two in the car and drove to the church._

_“With Lance in the buggy and you holding my hand, the four of us wandered into the Church. Everyone already in there smiled when they saw Alfor and came over to see us. They’d met you before but Lance and me were new to them, and I was half convinced everyone would make comments and make me feel like an outcast again. But… but that didn’t happen._

_“A woman came over and gave Alfor a kiss on the cheek and said, ‘Alfor, it’s so good to see you’ and ‘hello, Allura, how much have you grown?’. And you made a comment to her about having grown twenty centimetres and she laughed even though you were being serious. And your Dad introduced Lance and I and he said… he said, ‘this is Coran, my partner, and Lance, his— our son.’ And the woman shook Papa’s hand and crouched down to talk to Lance in the buggy and she wasn’t judgemental at all.”_

_At this point in his story, Papa’s voice started to waver. I realised he was crying, and held out my hand to express sympathy in the only way I knew how. “Thanks, love.”_

_When he had stopped sobbing, he continued his story, “And I was feeling tearful and your dad squeezed my hand and it was amazing. And then the Vicar came over to have a chat and he said, ‘it’s so wonderful to meet your family, Alfor. It was so hard for you with the loss of your wife, but it’s so lovely to see you trying to start again. And hello, Allura.’ And he offered to shake your hand but you just hid behind my legs. It was so sweet._

_“We sat through the service (it was a bit boring just like I always used to find religious services, and Lance was fidgeting and you looked bored stiff), and the Vicar mentioned our family in his sermon. And it was so beautiful for us to be accepted just like any other family in that Church that your dad started crying too._

_“I don’t go to Church often, but when I do, I know they will never turn me away.”_

Even now, remembering this story makes my eyes sting with tears. Like Papa, I don’t go to Dad’s Church very often either, but I also know the people there are kind and accepting – something that we very rarely notice in the people around us.

 

3

At 1:03pm, Papa, Lance, Katie and I get into the car. Katie sits next to me in the back seat, whilst Lance sits at the front and fiddles with the radio.

“Lance, stop it,” Papa says. “Just leave it on one station and let it play.”

“Boring,” Lance mumbles, and he laughs.

“Oh shut up,” Papa says, but he starts laughing too.

In the backseat, I look at Katie and we both smile.

When we arrive at the Church, Lance helps Papa get his wheelchair out of the boot, Papa gets into his chair and we head up the ramp into the Church. This Church is small and a bit cramped, nothing like the Cathedral on the other side of town, but the people are kind and friendly, and that is what’s important.

Venturing inside, Papa’s eyes widen when someone says, “Coran!”

And a woman comes rushing over and leans down to hug him. “Hi, Anne.”

The woman called Anne smiles. “It’s so good to see you. It’s been years. Oh, look at Allura and Lance; you’re both so grown up. Hello, darlings.”

We both wave awkwardly at her, Lance mumbling a, “Hi.”

And Anne looks past us and sees Katie. “And who’s this? Acquired another child, have you?”

Papa laughs. “No, no, this is Katie, Allura’s friend.”

Anne waves at Katie, but then her smile fades. “Wait, where’s Alfor? I haven’t seen him around for a while.”

And Papa’s smile fades too. We all stare down at the floor, and Anne says, “Oh… oh no, has something happened?”

“He’s… he’s been very ill and he went through surgery,” Papa says softly. “He’s recovering in hospital right now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Anne says. “I hope he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Thank you,” Papa says.

Soon, it is time for the service to start. We sit on a pew together, Papa in his wheelchair at the edge of the aisle, and watch and listen as the Vicar begins his service. He talks about the normal Church stuff, Bible stories and things like that, and everyone sings a hymn (except Lance, Katie and I, because we don’t know the words) and he does the bread and wine thing, but none of us teenagers are allowed any wine.

And then towards the end of the service, the Vicar says, “It has come to my attention that Alfor Altea, a strong and caring member of our community, has recently been extremely ill and is currently recovering from surgery. And I ask that we all pray for his swift recovery, and for the support of his family.”

And everyone bows their heads and prays silently for Dad and our family.

And I just sit there, stunned. I don’t believe in God, but it is so unbelievably kind for all of these people to pray for my dad, hoping with all their hearts that he will get better. Beside me, Katie squeezes my hand and Lance looks dazed. And Papa is crying silently, tears running down his face.

This is so wonderful. I can’t wait to tell Dad just how wonderful the people at his Church really are.

 

4

I go to bed at 10pm like I try to every night, and I am so tired that I fall asleep very quickly. And then I start to dream.

For the third time, Katie and I are walking through a park and holding hands. We smile as we talk about something (I think we are talking about _Red_ _Dwarf_ , but I’m not actually sure what we are saying) and have our fingers interlocked and we’re both so happy.

And then…

And then Katie is moving closer and she whispers, “Allura, I love you.”

And I’m grinning and I say, “I love you too.”

And we’re so close together and then Katie’s kisses me, our lips pressed together and—

And I awake, my heart racing and feeling totally confused. Why did I dream about kissing Katie?

Why did I dream that I liked it?

Would I like to kiss her in real life?

I don’t understand.

It takes me ages to fall asleep again.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] The medical term for your body clock.


	18. 24/09/01

Monday 24th September 2001

 

1

Colleen is being discharged from hospital today. In fact, when sixth form ends, Katie is going to be picked up by her mother and go home. And I might feel a bit sad about Katie no longer staying at my house, but that is pathetic and my opinion doesn’t matter, so I don’t tell anyone this. I’m just glad that Katie and her mum are going to get to start living together again, but without William.

Speaking of William, he will go to court in three months for his trial for domestic abuse and grievous bodily harm, but until then, he has been denied bail. So he is currently at the local prison, leaving Katie and Colleen totally safe and able to live their lives without him worrying them. We all just hope the court case will go in their favour and William will be locked away for a very long time.

Anyway, Katie and I don’t really want to go to sixth form this morning, preferring to go with Papa to pick Colleen up from the hospital, but Papa insists.

“I know you want to, girls, but we can’t pull you out of sixth form again,” Papa says, perched on the arm of the sofa at 8:22am, three minutes before we need to leave to take Lance to school. “But the sixth form already gave me hell for pulling you out on Friday.”

“Why?” Katie asks, as though she doesn’t actually want the answer.

Papa sighs. “They said when I called and said you weren’t ill but I was taking you out for the day, they were _very_ unimpressed and logged it as an unauthorised absence.”

“But that’s bollocks!” Lance says, stomping down the stairs. “I mean, you were taking them to the police station, not Alton fucking Towers[1].”

“Language,” Papa says, but he doesn’t snap like he usually does when Lance swears. “But I know what you mean. It isn’t fair. But there isn’t anything we can do about it, so… you have to go, okay.”

Katie and I nod.

“Okay,” I say.

“Right then,” Papa says. He hauls himself to his feet, leaning heavily on two crutches, and exhales slowly; he’s in a lot of pain and I wish I could help. “Let’s get you lot to school, then I can pick up Colleen later and everything will be okay.”

I know Papa is lying to us, because there is no way everything will be okay when there are so many things still wrong in our lives, but I know he is only doing it to try and reassure us. So I smile weakly and follow him out to the car.

 

2

When I enter my maths classroom, I am met by a wonderful surprise.

“Hunk, you’re back!”

Sat at our desk, Hunk is here. And he still looks weak and sickly and washed out, but he’s smiling and he’s here and—

“I’ve missed you!” I say, rushing to sit down beside him.

Hunk grins. “Me too. It’s so great to see you again.”

As it is the first lesson of the day and we’ve both arrived early, Hunk and I are the only students in the classroom. So I don’t have to worry about Kate or anyone else, because it is just Hunk and I.

“How’s everything been?” Hunk asks.

And that is when I hesitate. So much has happened since Hunk and I last met. And it isn’t my place to tell Hunk about Katie’s family situation, and I can’t bring myself to talk about Dad, so I just focus on how my injuries have almost healed.

“That’s going to be one impressive scar,” he says, pointing to the thin line of scabbing on my forehead that used to be a gash covered in multiple stitches.

“Probably,” I say. “I’ve already got loads of them.”

“Me too,” Hunk says. “I consider them to be a badge of honour.”

When I see his faux-serious expression, I start laughing. Hunk laughs too, although his laughter turns into a slight coughing fit, his lungs clearly still healing after his pneumonia. Still, the smile never leaves his face and it’s so nice to be with him again.

Although our reunion is ruined when other students start arriving, including a certain bully we both hate.

“Oh, look who’s back,” Kate says to Hunk. “It’s the cripple.”

I grit my jaw, about to leap up out of my seat and scream at her, but Kate gets caught in the act.

“Kate, what did you just say?” Mr Allen says, glaring at Kate as he enters the classroom.

“Uh, nothing, sir,” Kate says, ducking her head.

“That’s strange, because I thought I heard you calling Hunk a cripple. Which is certainly unacceptable behaviour.”

As Mr Allen tells off Kate for being horrible to Hunk, we both smile. It’s always nice to see a horrible person get reprimanded for their behaviour rather than simply getting away with it. Kate sees us smiling and looks like she wants to kill us, but she can’t do anything with our teacher telling her off. It’s brilliant.

And for the rest of the lesson, I get to sit with my friend and we help each other with our work and talk and I don’t feel so alone.

 

3

Midway through our biology lesson, Katie and I are surprised to find a student messenger stood in the doorway.

She knocks, smiling awkwardly, and says, “Uh, Allura Altea and Katie Holt need to come to the office.”

I look at Katie, and she seems to be thinking the same thing as me. Is this about the fight with Kate? Or is it about Colleen?

Either way, we hold hands and try not to look too terrified as we walk through the sixth form, hoping everything is okay. We get lead into the receptionist’s office, and she smiles and tells us to go into the adjacent meeting room. My heart racing, I pull open the door and—

“Mum!”

“Papa!”

Colleen and Papa are sat in the meeting room. Colleen is in a wheelchair, covered in casts and stitches, but with such a lovely smile on her face. Papa sits beside her on one of the many swivel chairs, hugging his crutches to his chest (he must have walked in here from the car, confirming my theory that he is coming out of the relapse).

“What are you doing here?” I say, not quite suppressing the need to flap my hands.

Katie openly flaps her hands, laughing hysterically as she pulls Colleen into a careful hug. “Mum! I can’t believe it.”

I wander over to Papa and squeeze his hands, and both of us watch Katie and her mum hug. It is such a lovely sight.

“We thought we should come and visit before I take Colleen back home,” Papa explains, his voice quiet.

When Katie and Colleen finally stop hugging, Katie is crying. Papa hands her a tissue and she wipes at her eyes, and I wish I was better at comforting people. And as I look at my crying friend, my stomach clenches and I find myself thinking about my dream, the one where we kissed.

But that isn’t important. What is important is that Colleen is out of hospital and she and Katie are back together.

“Papa, why am I here?” I say, something occurring to me. “I mean, you’re here because you’re driving for Colleen and Katie’s here because her mum is leaving hospital, but… why am I here?”

“Ah, well, you see, there’s something else I need to say,” Papa says, smiling as he twists the ends of his moustache (which has been looking a bit droopy the last few days, because Papa doesn’t have the energy to properly groom his moustache right now).

My heart rate spikes again. “What is it?”

“Well, while I was at the hospital, I went to see your dad,” Papa says slowly. “And… he had news. News about his biopsy.”

Of course! The biopsy they did on the tumour after Dad’s brain surgery to see if it is malignant or not. Oh no… is it bad news?

“It’s benign.”

I stare at Papa and he squeezes my hands.

“Benign?” I say.

He nods, his smile getting broader. “Yep, not a hint of cancer anywhere. He doesn’t have cancer, love!”

And that is it.

“Shit,” I say, my hands flapping violently as I dash around the room, no idea what to do with myself, the happiness that surges through me so overwhelming I almost forget how to breathe. “I… Amazing!”

All of my fears were unfounded. Dad doesn’t have cancer. He isn’t going to die. I can’t even begin to process how happy I am right now.

“That’s wonderful,” Colleen says, patting Papa on the arm. “I’m so happy for you.”

“That’s amazing, Allura,” Katie says, and we hold hands as I buzz with overwhelming happiness, struggling to come to terms with the fact that Dad is going to be okay.

“It certainly is,” I say, and it about this moment that I realise my eyes are full of tears.

But why am I crying? I’m not sad.

Although Dr David did tell me once that any strong emotion can make you cry.

So I’m crying because I’m happy, so wonderfully happy, because my dad doesn’t have cancer and everything is going to be okay.

 

4

At lunchtime, Katie and I go to the library with the intention of doing homework. We sit in the corner of the room with our notebooks and library books piled all over the small table, and try our best to study… but it doesn’t happen.

Which is why I said we had the intention of doing homework. Because we really were planning on doing it, but it never happens.

Because we just can’t focus. What with the news about Dad and the surprise visit of Papa and Colleen, we’re both too focused on that to actually do any of our homework. So we end up talking instead.

“Your black eye has nearly gone,” I say, because it has; the skin around Katie’s eye is nearly free of swelling.

Reflexively, Katie pokes the skin around her eye. “It took it’s time. Hey, when did your stitches dissolve?”

Also on reflex, I touch the scab on my forehead. “The other day. It still hasn’t healed though, and I wish it would. It’s really itchy.”

Katie grimaces. “I know what you mean. Cuts are always really itchy when they’re healing, aren’t they?”

I nod. “They certainly are. It’s going to scar pretty badly, though, adding to my wonderful collection.”

“It doesn’t matter, though,” Katie says. “With or without the scars, you’re still really pretty.”

We realise what she said around the same time. I blush and Katie buries her head in her hands, and I think she is blushing too even though I can’t see for certain. Did she really just say that? Did she call me pretty? Did she mean it? Does Katie really find me pretty? And why is thinking about this making my stomach churn and reminding me of the dream in which we kissed?

“Uh, sorry,” Katie mumbles, her voice muffled by her hands.

“No… it’s okay,” I say. “And thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.”

“Really?” Katie says, moving her hands and looking at me, her face incredibly red. “So, so you don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t,” I say, smiling. “And… well, you’re pretty too.”

Katie stares at me. I duck my head. Why is this so embarrassing?

And she looks like she is about to say something, but then the bell rings and we have to rush to tidy up and get to our next lessons.

And I just can’t stop thinking about that conversation. It was so awkward, but also quite nice. Katie is such a lovely person.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] Alton Towers is a theme park in Staffordshire. I have only been there once, when I was quite young, but the rides looked really amazing. It was loud and busy and there wasn’t much to do, but now I am older I hope we can go again someday and go on the thrill rides.


	19. 26/09/01

Wednesday 26th September 2001

 

1

“It seems like you’ve turned into a taxi service, Papa,” Lance says.

“Don’t be silly, Lance,” Papa says. “I mean, taxi drivers get paid.”

Papa and Lance both snort with laughter. But I don’t get what is funny, so I just sit there looking confused.

Although, Lance does have a point. These last few days, Papa has been driving a lot. He’s done the following:

  * Drive Lance to school
  * Drive Katie and I to sixth form
  * Drive to the hospital to see Dad
  * Drive us to the hospital to visit Dad and Colleen
  * Drive to the hospital to pick up Colleen
  * Drive Katie and I to the police station



And many more things, all while recovering from a Multiple Sclerosis relapse and dealing with the emotional pain of his long-term partner being in hospital.

Currently, we are on our way to pick up Katie. Colleen may be out of hospital, but she is in no state to drive, and Papa volunteered to do her driving for her. And Colleen’s driving responsibilities involve taking Katie to sixth form. So even though Katie is no longer staying with us, we are still taking her to school.

“But seriously,” Lance says, getting over his laughter and rocking in his seat. “Good on you, Papa. You feel like crap but you’re doing all of this for everyone.”

Papa smiles. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary, love. This is just part of having a family.”

There’s something else in terms of driving that I forgot to mention. Later today, Papa will be driving back to the hospital, but not to see Dad – to take Dad home. Because Dad is being discharged today!

After all this time, we are going to have Dad back home. It’s going to be so annoying to spend all day at sixth form when I just want to see my dad. But at least I’ll get the wonderful experience of seeing Dad back in our house when I eventually get to come home.

Thinking about Dad coming home just… it makes me feel optimistic. Now we know his tumour is benign and he’s had the surgery and he’s coming back home, this all just helps me feel like we are returning to normalcy, with our family life stable again. I just hope I’m correct.

After six minutes and thirty two seconds in the car, we arrive at the Holt house. Katie comes running up the garden path and gets into the back seat of the car, beside me.

“Mum said to say thanks again, Coran,” she says, fastening her seatbelt.

“Okay, love. And tell Colleen that I said you’re welcome again and she doesn’t need to keep thanking me,” Papa says, grinning.

Katie smiles and starts giggling, and my face heats up. I look away and stare out of the window, wondering why I am blushing.

Wait, is this because I find Katie pretty?

Bloody hell, and I going to blush whenever she does something adorable?

Now I think she’s adorable?!

Shit, this is all so confusing.

 

2

The problem with being worried a lot and chronically sleep deprived is that it can send your emotions weird. And as an autistic person, I already have issues understanding my emotions and controlling them, so this can obviously cause problems.

Such as in maths, when Kate’s usual actions (that normally irritate me) now make me want to cry. It reminds me of my first ever maths lesson when Kate’s bullying made me cry and act up so much I got moved to sit with Hunk in the first place. And I’m starting to feel like that again now.

Kate isn’t doing much (it isn’t like she can just walk over here and call me _lezzer_ or a _spaz_ in the middle of class), but it is still enough to make my heart race and my eyes sting with the effort of holding back tears. She keeps turning around and looking at me when Mr Allen isn’t looking, giving me horrible looks and mouthing things. I don’t know what she is mouthing, but my guess is it is slurs.

And I don’t know why – because I’m strong and I’ve gone through so much these last few weeks and I got bullied for years far worse than this – but her actions just make me break down crying.

I cry and soon I am sobbing loudly, covering my face with my hands as I rock back and forth in my seat. And now I’m crying, I think about Dad and Papa and Katie and 9/11 and everything that has made me upset recently that I haven’t cried over, and all of these thoughts and memories make me cry so hard it is hard to breathe.

“Pathetic,” Kate says.

“Allura?” Hunk whispers.

“Allura, what’s wrong?” Mr Allen says, and I hear his footsteps.

“She’s upset, sir. Can I take her outside to help her calm down?” Hunk says.

“Yes, of course.”

“Come on, Allura,” Hunk says, reaching out for my hand. “Let’s go outside.”

And as I try to stop crying, I stand up, try to blink the tears from my eyes and follow Hunk out of the room. We walk down the corridor and go into the empty canteen, all the while I’m crying and Hunk is saying, “Come on, it’s okay, just try to breathe, okay.”

Hunk helps me sit down, and keeps squeezing my hand. And with the two of us alone in a quiet place and Hunk with me and holding my hand, I manage to get a hold of my emotions before they end up causing a meltdown. I scrub at my eyes and try to slow my breathing, and gradually, I start to feel better.

An occasional tear still leaking down my face, I try my best to smile and look at Hunk, rocking back and forth on my chair.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice wobbling.

“No problem,” Hunk says, smiling. “I just wanted to help.”

“Do you think I’m weak?”

“Of course not. Everyone needs a good cry every now and again.”

I smile weakly, nodding at him.

 

3

When Katie and I get into Papa’s car at the end of sixth form, Katie says, “It’s so good your dad is out of hospital.”

“I know,” I say. “How is he, Papa?”

Reversing the car out of the parking space, Papa says, “Okay, love. He’s still feeling a bit poorly from the anaesthetic; that stuff can make you feel weird for weeks. But he’s happy to be back home and he’s currently on the sofa bed watching the TV, and he said he can’t wait to see you and Lance again.”

I smile, knowing Lance and I feel exactly the same way. We listen to the radio on our way to the school, where we pick up Lance. He is buzzing with excitement, and can’t sit still.

“Dad,” he says. “Dad. We’re going to see Dad.”

Katie and I look at each other and smile. Papa raises his eyebrows.

“Yep,” Papa says. “We’re going to see Dad.”

“Hey, how’s your mum, Katie?” Lance says, trying to turn around in his seat as Papa drives.

He stops trying to turn around when Papa swats his hand at him and says, “Stop it, Lance.”

So Lance continues to try and talk to Katie even though she is behind him by using his favourite tactic: talking too loud.

Amused by this whole scene, Katie smiles and nods. “Yeah, she’s doing well. She’s been having trouble sleeping, but everything’s healing well. She’s like a changed person without William around.”

Katie stops talking, and everyone sees to adopt the same serious body language. And I have feeling that I’m not the only person who is thinking: _I just hope William never comes back into your lives._

Still, everyone seems quite happy as we drive to Katie’s house, and I don’t mention how I started crying in maths. I don’t want to make everyone sad.

When we drop off Katie, she waves and we all wave back (and my face goes hot again). And then we drive back home and prepare to see Dad. Lance is bouncing up and down again, and I find my hands flapping. It’s going to be so nice to see Dad outside of the hospital.

And when Papa parks the car on the drive, Lance and I bolt out of the car and Lance unlocks the front door, me still limping slightly but still moving fast. And even though I feel kind of bad for leaving Papa behind, I just can’t wait to see Dad.

We rush into the living room, and there he is.

“Dad!” Lance yells.

Dad is sat propped up on the sofa bed, smiling at us. He still has a dressing taped to the top of his forehead, but he looks so much better without being hooked up to all of the machines. It’s so good to see him that I almost start crying again.

“Hi, Dad!” I say as Lance jumps forwards and hugs Dad.

“Hi, you two,” Dad says, patting Lance on the back. “How are you?”

“We’re okay,” I say as Lance continues to hug Dad. “It’s so amazing to see you back home.”

“I know. I’ve never loved this sofa bed more.”

When Lance finally stops hugging Dad, I step forwards and clasp his hand. We interlock our fingers, smiling at each other.

“Hey, where’s your papa?” Dad says.

Lance and I look at each other and splutter.

“We, uh, left him behind,” Lance says. When Dad gives him a look, Lance smiles and says, “I’ll go get him!”

“No need,” Papa says, stumbling into the living room, leaning heavily on his crutches. “I’m here. We’ve got such wonderful children, Alfor. Do you know how they abandoned their disabled father?”

But Papa isn’t being serious. I know because of the silly smile on his face.

“Yeah, I heard,” Dad says, grinning. “What little shits.”

“Dad!” Lance says, mimicking Papa.

We all start giggling, and Papa sits on the sofa bed beside Dad. He kisses him. “Seriously, though. It’s so good to have you back, love.”

And Lance and I sit on the foot of the sofa bed and we just spend time with both our dads, so glad everyone is back together.

 

4

I am in my bedroom at 7:02pm[1] just finishing off my homework when I hear someone knock on my bedroom door.

“Hey, Allura, we’ve got visitors,” Lance calls, and there is that silly tone in his voice that I just know means something good has happened.

“Okay,” I say, getting up and opening the door. “Who is it?”

“Uh uh, it’s a surprise,” Lance says, waggling a finger at me.

“Git,” I say, and Lance laughs.

“Come on, then.”

And I follow my brother down the stairs. We walk into the living room, and my eyes widen.

“Katie?”

Katie and her mum are sat in our living room, Colleen in the armchair with her wheelchair collapsed beside her, and Katie perched on the arm[2].

“What are you doing here?” I say, rushing over to my friend and briefly clasping her hand.

“It was Katie’s idea,” Papa says. “Colleen phoned us up earlier and said Katie would like to come around to visit, and your dad and I were more than happy so I popped around and picked them up and… well, here they are.”

I can’t stop smiling. This is amazing.

For the rest of the evening, Katie and Colleen stay with us and we talk about our lives and watch TV and eat crisps and we all have a great time.

Although when Katie and Colleen finally leave, I find myself a bit sad. And then I blush instead and I’m more confused than ever.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] What with everything that has happened recently, I haven’t been keeping up with my homework, and I have only been handing in work of poor quality because I’m too tired to focus. So I really need to start doing more homework, otherwise I might get detention.

[2] Dad and Papa used to tell Lance and I off for sitting on the arm of the armchair, but ever since Papa sat on it and damaged the insides of the chair last year, they have stopped complaining when anyone does the same.


	20. 28/09/01

Friday 28th September 2001

 

1

It is 4:30pm, and Katie and I sit on a bench outside of sixth form, waiting to be picked up by Papa. Just like yesterday, being so close to Katie is making me blush, and I still don’t understand it.

“I can’t believe how much of a bitch she is,” Katie says, fiddling with her hearing aid.

Somewhat obviously, she is talking about Kate. Kate and her friends have been glaring at us whenever they see us, but I appear to be the only one who actually finds their behaviour threatening. But Katie just finds her pathetic.

“I mean, they haven’t tried to hurt you since I punched her so they’re obviously threatened by us, but they won’t give it a rest,” she says, sighing. “Why can’t they just leave us alone?”

“Did you get bullied at school?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah, a little bit. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking. Because… well, I was bullied a lot, and I was thinking… bullies never give it a rest. They keep doing it and doing it until you snap, and then you get in trouble and they get away with it. It’s just what they do.”

I remember being seven years old and bullied at school, this exact scenario happening.

_“Leave me alone!” I cried, tears running down my face._

_The boy smiled and said, “No, because you’re a pathetic little retard!”_

_And as I heard the slur anger bubbled up inside of me as well as fear and sadness and I clenched my hands into trembling fists._

_“Shut up!” I yelled, and I lashed out._

_My hand connected with the boy’s face, pain shooting up my arm, and I turned and ran away as fast as I could. From somewhere behind me, I could hear him screaming._

_When the teachers found me, they reprimanded me._

_“It’s unacceptable to hit someone, Allura.”_

_And I was crying so hard I couldn’t speak. So I couldn’t defend myself. So I got a detention and he got away with being so hateful to me._

I smile sadly. “They just want to get a reaction out of us.”

Katie folds her arms, hunching forwards slightly. “I know exactly what you mean. But I still hate her.”

“Me too,” I say.

Both of us clearly thinking about our hatred for bullies, we fall silent. But my thoughts soon turn to Katie again. I keep thinking about how she called me pretty and how I blush when I am near her and the dream I had where we kissed. And I know Katie is bisexual so it is possible for her to have feelings for me. Does Katie love me?

And because I have no filter and have never dealt with something like this before, I end up just saying, “Katie, do you love me?”

Katie doesn’t say anything, but I hear her breathing hitch. I blush even more, my face burning. Why did I say that?

But then I hear something that makes me gasp.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

I can’t bring myself to look at her. She must be blushing too.

“You do?”

“Yeah. So… what do you think?”

I still don’t look at her. I don’t say anything either, silently holding out my hand. Katie grasps it and even though her hand is disgustingly clammy, I don’t let go.

And before I even have a chance to compose my answer, Papa arrives, and we both get up and get into the car. We aren’t alone at any point, so I don’t feel like I can answer her.

The thing is, I don’t know what my answer is. Do I love her? I don’t know. And if I do, how do I even date her?

Why must be relationships be so confusing?

 

2

We are having our dinner when someone knocks on the front door. I have already finished eating (I eat quite quickly), so I stand up and say, “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks, love,” Papa says.

I walk through the house and answer the front door. Plaxum is stood there, carrying a large bag. She looks like she might have put on weight, and I think she has been crying.

“Hello, Plaxum,” I say, smiling (because that’s what you are meant to say when you answer the door). “What are you doing here?”

“Hi,” she says, giving me the smallest smile. “Uh, can I talk to Lance, please?”

Confused by her behaviour, I nod. “Of course. Just wait here.”

And I rush back through the house, stick my head into the dining room and say, “Lance, Plaxum’s here and she wants to talk to you.”

In any other situation, it would be hilarious to see the facial expression on Lance’s face change so quickly. But when his smile drops and obvious fear crosses his face, I know something is wrong.

“Okay,” he says. “Can I go?”

“Of course, love,” Papa says, looking as confused as me.

And Lance gets up and hurries into the hallway to see Plaxum. Thirty seconds later, Lance yells, “Can I take Plaxum upstairs? We need a chat!”

When Dad and Papa let him, we hear footsteps on the stairs and Lance’s bedroom door slam shut. I look at my parents, Papa at the dining table with me and Dad at the living room end of the long room, sat on the sofa bed. We’re all so confused. Just what is happening?

It takes a lot to get Lance stressed, and I have only seen Plaxum this upset once, when she and Lance had a huge argument. There must be something seriously wrong. I hope they are both okay.

Over forty minutes later, when Papa and I are back in the living room with Dad, we hear footsteps on the stairs again.

“Think we’re going to find out their problem?” Dad says.

Papa grasps his hand. “I hope so.”

Bouncing my legs up and down, I watch Lance and Plaxum walk into the room. Plaxum no longer has her bag, and stands with her arms folded across her chest and her head bowed. Lance looks terribly flustered, but he has his arm around her waist, keeping Plaxum close to him. Whatever is wrong, it doesn’t appear that they are breaking up, because it looks like they are still in love. So what the hell is it?

“Are you two okay?” Papa asks.

“Um… not really,” Lance says, his voice weak. “Allura, can Plaxum have your seat?”

“Um, yeah, of course,” I say, standing up.

“You don’t need to,” Plaxum mumbles.

“No, its okay,” I say, stepping to the side and letting her take my seat. She does look rather wobbly, after all.

“Lance, what’s going on?” Dad asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Uh…” Lance looks across the room and Plaxum, who nods her head. “Uh, well, it’s probably better to start from the beginning. You see… Plaxum’s pregnant.”

Papa and Dad look stunned. To be honest, I am too. I watch my parents stare at Lance and Plaxum, and then look at each other, their eyes wide with shock and confusion. Lance darts across the room and sits on the arm of the armchair, putting his hand on Plaxum’s shoulder.

“Really?” Dad says.

Lance and Plaxum nod.

“Yeah, really.”

“I… I did a test last week,” Plaxum says, starting at her clasped hands. “I was so scared so I bought like four more, but they all say the same thing. I’m pregnant.”

“Lance, you’re fourteen,” Papa says.

“I know,” Lance says, looking so embarrassed it is like he wants to die.

“Some fourteen year olds do have sex, Papa,” I say, my face burning.

“I know that, love,” Papa says, blushing bright red. “But… but most fourteen year old boys don’t get their girlfriends pregnant. Did you even use protection?”

Lance shakes his head. “No… we forgot.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Papa says, his voice rising in volume. “You idiots! Don’t you know how serious this all is? Did you even listen during sex ed? I just… I can’t…”

Papa trails off when he notices Plaxum. She looks like she’s going to cry. His face falls.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, love,” he says, awkwardly pushing himself into an upright position. “I’m just so shocked. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“We really weren’t expecting this,” Dad says, patting Papa on the arm. “So, how far along are you?”

“About three weeks,” Plaxum mumbles.

“Uh, you know that night when I lied and said I wasn’t at a party but I actually was?” Lance says, his voice tiny. “We think it was then. The few other times we used a condom but… not that night.”

“We’re really stupid, and we’re sorry,” Plaxum says.

Papa sighs, leaning across the gap between the sofa bed and the armchair to pat her arm. “It’s okay, love. All teenagers make stupid mistakes. When I was a teenager I got totally drunk the first time I had alcohol and fell and cut my head open.” As he says this, Plaxum winces. “So, yeah, everyone messes up. And I’m sorry for shouting. But you are really going to have to think about the future.”

“Do you have any plans?” Dad asks.

Lance and Plaxum look at each other.

“Well, that’s kind of the other thing we wanted to say,” Lance says.

Taking a deep breathing, Plaxum says, “I told my parents. They told me to pack my bag and g-get out.”

Her voice breaking, Plaxum starts to sob. Lance hugs her tightly and she covers her face with her hands.

“Oh, God,” Dad says, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a deep sigh.

“Don’t cry, love,” Papa says.

Not sure what to do, I grab the box of tissues and hold it out to Plaxum. She sniffs and smiles weakly.

“Dad, Papa, I know it’s kind of sudden and everything, but she’s got nowhere else to go,” Lance says, rubbing Plaxum’s back. “Can she stay?”

“Please, just for a couple of nights,” Plaxum says, her voice wobbling as she cries. “I’m alone. Please!”

“Please don’t cry,” Papa says. “You can stay.”

Plaxum stares at him, tears running down her face. “Really?”

“Of course, love,” he says.

“We’ve had Allura’s friend living her for a few days, so I think we’re fine with you staying,” Dad says. “On one condition.”

“What?” Plaxum says.

“You’re not staying in Lance’s room.”

Lance rolls his eyes, but they both smile brightly and nod.

“Thank you so much,” Plaxum says.

“Thanks, guys,” Lance says, getting up and hugging both Dad and Papa.

And I stand to the side and watch this whole scene. So Plaxum is pregnant and her family chucked her out. And now she is going to be living with us.

Why does it seem like everyone associated with our family has bad things happen to them?

 

3

It is 10:20pm and Plaxum is in my bedroom. Just like when Katie was here, we have a problem with sleeping space. Dad has managed to come upstairs into his bedroom, whilst Papa is still down on the sofa bed (it really isn’t enough space for two people to sleep on the sofa bed together, even though Dad and Papa want to spend time together). Lance is in his room, which leaves Plaxum in here with me.

“You can have the bed,” I say.

“But it’s your room.”

“I know, but you’re pregnant. You take the bed.”

Smiling, Plaxum says, “Thanks,” and sits on my bed.

I take the blankets Papa gave me and make a bed on the floor. We are both ready for bed, so we get into our beds and lay down.

“Are you feeling all right?” I ask.

“I’m fine, thanks. Do you want me to turn the lamp off?”

I nod and Plaxum turns off the light. But even though it is dark, we don’t sleep. In fact, I wonder if I could possibly get some good advice from her.

“Plaxum?” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Well, you and Lance have been dating for a while now, right?”

“Yeah, about five months. Why?”

“Does that mean you know a lot about how dating works?”

“Um… I guess so. Is there anything you want to know?”

I hesitate, rolling onto my side. “How do you react if someone says they love you?”

“Uh… well… I think it all depends on if you like them back. If you don’t, you tell them you’re flattered and decline their offer. If you like them, you can just say you love them too and see where it goes.”

“Thank you,” I say.

But I still have a problem. I’ve never fallen in love before, so I don’t know if I love Katie or not. I want to ask more questions, but I’m too embarrassed.

So when I fall asleep, I still have questions I need to ask.


	21. 30/09/01

Sunday 30th September 2001

 

1

I didn’t set my alarm clock last night, so I oversleep. In fact, it is 10:02am when Plaxum and I wake up, and that is only because someone is knocking on the door.

I lurch into a sitting position, my back aching from lying on the floor[1], and rub my back as I call, “Come in.”

My door isn’t locked, so the person turns the handle and opens the door. And to my surprise, it is Papa stood in the doorway. He’s leaning on two walking sticks, but his smile is big and he looks so much more alert.

“Papa!” I say, standing up. “You’re upstairs.”

He grins. “I certainly am.”

“Does this mean you’re feeling better?”

I sit on the end of the bed, where Plaxum is sat up under the blankets, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

Papa nods. “Yeah, love. I think I’m in remission again.”

“Excellent!” I say. With Papa out of his relapse, he’s going to be more able to do things and be far less fatigued.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” Plaxum says, smiling.

“Thanks, love. How are you, by the way?”

Plaxum blushes, her hands moving to hold her abdomen. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be pregnant; if I was to get pregnant, I would have an abortion with no hesitation. But I think Plaxum wants to keep her foetus, and I commend her for wanting to go through the physical and mental stresses of pregnancy.

“Um, I’m okay,” she says.

“Good. Make sure to tell me if there’s anything you need. Breakfast is ready if you two want to come downstairs.”

“Okay, Papa,” I say, and he leaves.

“Plaxum?” I say. “Can I ask you… how did your parents react when you told then you’re pregnant?”

She flinches slightly.

“Sorry, you don’t have to say if it’s going to upset you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Plaxum says, hands still on her abdomen. “It didn’t go well. My mum called me a slut. My dad called me a disgrace. And my mum threw a rucksack at me and told me to pack my bag and leave.” She sighs shakily. “So I did.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand what would drive people to act like that, but I’m so sorry you had to deal with your parents treating you like shit.”

My use of a swearword brings a slight smile to her face.

“Thanks. I’m just so lucky Lance and his family are so kind. He could’ve been a right bastard and abandoned me, but he’s standing by me. And of course your dads let me stay here and… I’m so grateful.”

Her voice is getting thick, and I hope she won’t start crying. I hold out my hand and Plaxum takes it, smiling weakly.

“I’m just glad we can help,” I say, meaning every word.

 

2

After we get dressed, Plaxum and I head downstairs for a late breakfast. We sit at the dining table and eat toast, whilst Papa joins Dad on the sofa bed in the living room. Dad is looking better than ever, and I still grin like an idiot whenever I remember that he doesn’t have cancer and is going to get better. We are so lucky that the tumour was benign.

Lance wanders into the dining room and sits down next to Plaxum. He kisses her cheek and says, “Did you enjoy your lie-in?”

Plaxum smiles. “Yeah, it was nice. How’re you?”

“I’m okay. Has Papa told you yet?”

“Told me what?” Plaxum says, frowning.

“Shit,” Lance says.

“Lance!” Papa snaps.

“Told me what?” Plaxum says again.

Papa sighs, getting to his feet and wandering over to the dining room. “I was going to tell you later, love, but I’ve had an idea.”

Plaxum frowns again, clearly worried. “What is it?”

Sitting down next to me, Papa says, “I think we should go and talk to your parents.”

“No!”

We all stare at Plaxum. Her eyes are wide with panic and she grips the edge of the table with trembling hands.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lance says, putting his arm around her.

“I’m not going to leave you there, I promise,” Papa says, patting her shoulder. “It’s just… we need to work things out. If they really want nothing to with you anymore, they’ll have to put you in care or let someone become you’re legal guardian. You’re fifteen, Plaxum, they can’t treat a minor like this.”

Her grip on the table relaxing, Plaxum looks at Papa. “I don’t want to go into care.”

“I know you don’t, love. But we can work on the guardian option. And… and if they say yes, I can work on becoming your guardian and you can live here with us.”

Now she’s staring at him, and I see her eyes fill with tears. And then Plaxum leaps out of her seat and hugs Papa, sobbing into his shoulder.

“Thank you! Thank you so much! I’d be honoured to live here with you. Thank you, Coran.”

Papa rubs her back, smiling. “It’s okay, love.”

“Really?” Lance says, grinning.

“Of course,” Papa says.

“Yeah, we discussed this last night,” Dad calls. “We’re happy for Coran to become your guardian, darling.”

Still crying, Plaxum pulls away from Papa and rubs her eyes.

“I’m so grateful,” she says. “But… I’m scared my parents will hurt me if I go back.”

“Well you won’t be alone,” Papa says. “You’ll be with me, and if they do anything to hurt you, I won’t hesitate to get you out of there and call the police. But I just want to have a civilised chat with them. I’m sure it’ll go well.”

And Plaxum doesn’t look like she completely believes Papa, but she nods her head. “Okay.”

 

3

At 12:56pm, Papa and Plaxum prepare to leave and visit her parents. As they put on their shoes in the hallway, Lance and I stand in the doorway and watch them.

“Should I come too?” Lance asks, obviously wanting to support his girlfriend.

“I don’t think so, love,” Papa says. “If they flipped out learning that their daughter is pregnant, I don’t think they’ll react well to seeing the boy who got her pregnant.”

As Plaxum blushes, Lance sighs but says, “You’ve got a point.”

And then he kisses Plaxum and Papa waves at us and they’re gone. Lance and I wander back into the living room and sit down, me on the sofa bed with Dad and him on the armchair. Lance bounces his legs up and down, a frantic stim born from worry.

“It’ll be okay,” Dad says. “Your Papa’s a good mediator.”

Lance smiles, but he doesn’t relax. And I understand why, because Plaxum’s parents were horrible to her and now she has gone back to the home she was banished from. In an attempt to distract my younger brother, I wander over to the shelves and look through our collection of videos.

“ _Red_ _Dwarf_?” I say, looking over my shoulders.

Still bouncing his legs, Lance smiles. “Sounds good to me.”

“What series?”

Lance and Dad look at each other, and Dad says, “Five?”

I nod and select Series V of _Red_ _Dwarf_ and put on the first video, and sit back down. But even though we get absorbed into the programme, I think Lance isn’t the only one who is distracted.

Because as I watch the TV, I keep thinking about Katie. She said she loves me, and I didn’t say anything back. That was two days ago, and I don’t know what to do. Should I phone her? But if I did, what would I say?

In the end, I don’t do anything, and simply watch the TV and try not to think about my best friend being in love with me and my potential feelings for her.

 

4

At 2:23pm, Papa and Plaxum return. It looks like she has been crying, and Papa has gone red.

“How did it go?” Lance says, rushing out into the hallway.

Papa shrugs. “Not as well as I hoped. Her parents literally told her to fuck off, and Plaxum started crying. She went to sit in the car and I stayed with her parents and tried to reason with them, but they said they wanted nothing to do with her anymore.”

“The bastards!” Lance mutters, hugging Plaxum.

Not telling Lance off for swearing, Papa continues, “So I asked them if they’d be happy for me to become Plaxum’s guardian. And they said they didn’t care, but they’d sign the paperwork if I get to become her guardian. You know… I was half expecting them to cave in and realise how horrible they were being, but they didn’t. So it looks like you’re going to be here for a while, love.”

“Thank you for trying,” Plaxum says.

They all wander back into the living room with Dad and I, sitting down.

“Just remember that you’re always welcome here,” Dad says.

Plaxum smiles. “I will. Thanks.”

And I watch Lance hug Plaxum and Dad and Papa smile, and I know that whilst some people can be horrible, my own family proves that there are good people out there.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] My makeshift bed on the floor is basically using a duvet as a mattress, which is rather uncomfortable after a while. Still, it isn’t like I could make Plaxum lay on the floor, so I just have to put up with it.


	22. 02/10/01

Tuesday 2nd October 2001

 

1

It is 5:45am, I am awake early and walking down the stairs to the ground floor[1] when anxiety makes my chest go tight.

Because I can hear someone vomiting in the downstairs bathroom.

Immediately, I am reminded about back in August when I heard Dad vomiting in the night and I told Papa and they were angry at each other for the next few days and everything was so awkward and it was the biggest sign since the awful nosebleed that something was seriously wrong with his health. So my hands flap up and down and I hunch forwards slightly, trying to calm down.

Especially when I realise that the person isn’t Dad. Their breathing pattern is different and their retches are higher in pitch. It isn’t Dad. He isn’t getting ill again. Thank the God I don’t believe in but Dad does that he isn’t getting ill again.

But then who is it? Realising I have been deliberating too long, I approach the toilet door and knock three times.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.

“Uh, h-hi, Allura,” Plaxum gasps.

Of course, it makes sense that Plaxum would be the one in here. Ever since Papa came out of his relapse, he moved back upstairs into his and Dad’s room, meaning Plaxum can have the sofa bed to herself rather than her sharing with me. And, well, she is pregnant, and a symptom in the early stages of pregnancy is morning sickness.

I try turning the door handle; it is unlocked. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” she says, and then I hear vomiting again.

So I walk into the downstairs toilet. Plaxum is kneeling in front of the toilet, her hands gripping the toilet seat and her head hanging over the bowl. The room is full of the foul smell of vomit and I grimace, but I step closer to Plaxum. She keeps vomiting, coughing vomit up as she groans and swears and sweat makes her pyjama top stick to her back.

“Plaxum?” I say. “Is this morning sickness?”

She raises her head, her face covered in sweat, her lips coated in stomach acid and tears trickling down her cheeks. “Th-Think so.”

“You must feel really bad. Um, is there anything I can do to help? Do you want me to get Coran?” It sounds weird to call Papa by his name, but that is what Plaxum knows him as so it just seems easier this way.

Plaxum shakes her head. “N-Nah, don’t wake him. But… can you stay?”

“Of course,” I say.

I’m really not very good at this, but I crouch down beside Plaxum and place my hand on her back. Don’t people normally rub someone’s back in a circular motion when they are vomiting? If so, it makes sense to do that. So I rub her back as she continues to vomit, flapping my free hand.

When Plaxum has finally stopped being sick, she flushes the toilet, stumbles to the sink and washes her hands with water. I watch her rinse her mouth with cold water before standing up straight.

But her legs are wobbling and I hold out my hand and say, “Would you like me to help you back to the sofa bed?”

She smiles. “Yeah, thanks.”

Holding her hand, I lead Plaxum back into the living room. She flops back on the sofa bed and rubs her eyes.

“Do you want a drink?” I say, trying to think of things Papa did for Lance last year when he had the winter vomiting virus. “Some crackers?”

“Yeah, they both sound good,” she says, smiling. “Thank you.”

I rush into the kitchen and pour a glass of water, take a packet of cream crackers out of the cupboard and go back into the living room. I put them down on the table next to the sofa bed and smile.

“There you go,” I say. “Anything else?”

“No, I think I’m fine. You can go back to bed, Allura. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” I say, quoting Lance.

And I go back upstairs, stopping in the now empty bathroom to use the toilet like originally intended, and get into bed. I fall asleep quickly, only awaking why my alarm clock blares and hurts my ears.

 

2

In biology, Katie and I have a microscope on our desk, studying onion cells and trying to draw them. The only problem is I still can’t see properly without glasses and Katie’s glasses mean she can’t look down the microscope properly, so this isn’t going well.

“We’re not the best team for this, are we?” Katie says, giggling.

I smile, wishing my face would stop blushing. Ever since Katie said she loves me, we haven’t talked about the topic. To be honest, things have been a bit awkward between us, and I don’t know what to do about it.

In the end, the kids at the next desk take pity on us and let us copy their sketches. We both thank them, glad that not everyone in this school is a wanker[2].

After class, it is lunchtime. Using my pass to leave the lesson five minutes early, we go to the canteen and sit at the wheelchair accessible table, waiting for Hunk to come and join us. He soon does, and the three of us have already started eating by the time the bell rings and everyone else starts moving around the school.

“How are you two, then?” Hunk asks, looking at Katie and then at me. There is an expression on his face that I don’t understand; does he know that things are awkward between Katie and I?

“I’m okay,” I say. “Much better since we learned my dad’s tumour was benign.”

Hunk smiles, nodding. “I’m so glad he’s doing better. What about you, Katie?”

Katie hasn’t told anyone about her mum or her step-dad or anything to do with that. So she just smiles and says, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

As I watch Katie and Hunk talk, I start to think about something. So even though it makes my face burn, I say, “Um, I was wondering… do you two know if it’s possible to be asexual and have a crush on someone at the same time?”

Katie goes a bit red and Hunk smiles awkwardly.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Katie says. “There’s this thing some people use called the split attraction model. It basically means your s-sexual and romantic attraction can be different. Like an asexual person who is biromantic, or an aromantic person who is gay. That kind of thing.”

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know that was a thing. Thank you for telling me.”

“No problem,” Katie says, smiling weaky.

I have to really fight to stop a huge smile crossing my face. Because this explains so much; if you can be asexual and have romantic feelings, then it means…

I think I really am in love with Katie.

But how do I say it?

In the end I don’t say anything.

Again.

 

3

The car is very full right now. With Plaxum living with us, Papa is currently driving four students to school and sixth form. So when Katie and I get into the car, I’m prepared for two more people joining us.

“Are you two okay?” Papa asks.

I try to focus on Papa’s words and not the fact that Katie is sat in the middle seat in the back of the car rather than behind Papa and is so sitting really close to me. “Um, yes, I’m fine, Papa.”

“Me too,” Katie says. “I’m glad you’re better, Coran.”

“Thanks, love. That’s the one good thing about having relapsing and remitting MS – I feel awful for a while, but I always get better.”

Katie smiles. “What’s it like having Lance’s girlfriend living with you?”

“It’s fine. We’ve got enough room and it’s just like when you turned up on our doorstep; we couldn’t turn her away.” Papa smiles. “But I have been looking into plans for the future.”

He doesn’t say any more and Katie looks a bit confused. I’m not sure what he means either, but I guess it’s about the possibility of becoming Plaxum’s guardian.

“Do you really want to be her guardian, Papa?” I ask.

Now Katie understands, and she smiles. “That’s so lovely, Coran!”

“Thanks, love,” Papa says. “And I’m genuinely serious about this, Allura. I know it’ll be complicated, but anything’s better than her going into care.” At this point, Papa sighs and says, “Should I be talking about this with Katie in the car?”

“No, its fine,” I say, smiling sheepishly. “I kind of told Katie all about the Plaxum situation yesterday. Is that okay?”

“I think its okay. It’s not like Katie’s going to tell the world, is it?”

Katie nods. “Other than my mum, I haven’t said a word, and Mum won’t tell. Her secret’s safe with us.”

We soon pull up at the high school, where Lance and Plaxum get into the car; Lance sitting in the passenger seat and Plaxum in the back with Katie and I.

“Sorry you’re such a taxi,” Plaxum says.

“It’s fine, love,” Papa says, smiling before turning back around in his seat and driving away.

Which is fine by me, because I hate being on this campus any more than necessary; it just reminds me of being bullied at this horrible place.

With all five of us in the car, we drive to Katie’s house and she gets out of the car (it is really annoying because she has the middle seat, so I have to get out to let her get out, before getting back into the car), and I wave when she does, watching Katie let herself into the house and shut the door.

“Right, back to the house,” Papa says, and we go home.

When we get home, Papa kisses Dad and then goes upstairs. Judging by his movements, he has gone into the study. Does he want to do some research about guardianships and adoption?

But only ten minutes later, when the rest of us are watching crap on the TV, Papa comes downstairs with a miserable expression on his face.

“What’s wrong, Coran?” Dad says.

Papa shrugs his shoulders. “I just learned something important but really bloody obvious. Gay people can’t adopt children.”

I stare at him. He’s right; it is obvious. We live in a shitty homophobic society that bans gay people from all sorts of things based on shitty old fashioned bigotry. So Papa can’t become Plaxum’s guardian.

“Shit!” Lance says.

“It’s not fair,” I say.

Papa sighs and slumps onto the sofa bed beside Dad, who holds his hand.

And Plaxum looks like she is going to cry. “So I’m going to go into care after all…”

“It seems that way,” Papa says. “I’m so sorry, love.”

Plaxum covers her face with her hands and Lance hugs her tightly.

“I’m sure we’ll still sort something out,” Dad says.

But none of us believe him. Fuck the government for barring people in same-sex relationships from adopting. Fuck the world for screwing us over once again.

 

4

At 7:10pm, when Lance, Plaxum and I are watching _The Simpsons_ on VHS, the phone rings. Papa is about halfway down the stairs at the time, so he answers it. He closes the door so we can’t hear, so we go back to watching our video.

But five minutes later, Papa comes into the room with a huge smile on his face. “Guess what?”

Lance’s face brightens as he looks at Papa. “What?”

“That was Colleen, Katie’s mum,” Papa says. “She’s heard about your situation, Plaxum, and she said she wants to try and adopt you.”

Plaxum stares at Papa, her eyes wide. “Really?”

I can’t stop smiling. “Colleen’s lovely. She’s my best friend’s mum and she’s so nice. But I can’t believe she’d try and adopt you. That’s amazing!”

Plaxum gets up and hugs Papa. And she says, “Can you give me her number? I need to thank her.”

Papa smiles and pats her back. “Of course, love.”

And as Plaxum goes into the hall to phone Colleen, Lance and I look at each other. And then we hold hands and laugh, so delighted we can’t even explain it.

Maybe the world isn’t such a wanker after all.

* * *

Footnotes

[1] Someone was in the bathroom when I got up; I never find out who was in there, but my guess is Papa.

[2] Wanker is an amazing swearword. It only really seems to be used in Britain, which is a shame, because it’s so funny when people say it and it makes a great insult. It comes from the work ‘wank’ which is slang for masturbation. The history of swearwords is really interesting and quite funny to read about.


	23. 03/10/01

Wednesday 3rd October 2001

 

1

I’m in love with Katie Holt! I know this for a fact, but where do I go from here?

I get out of bed at 7:30am after a night of restless sleep and wander downstairs. Not wanting to wake Plaxum up, I ease the door open and look inside, but I find she is already awake. Perfect.

“Uh, Plaxum?” I say, closing the door behind me.

She is slumped on the sofa bed and looks exhausted, but she turns her head and smiles. “Hey, good morning.”

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure,” Plaxum says, patting the bed beside her. “What’s on your mind?”

Moving to sit on the edge of the sofa bed, I wring my hands together. “Do you remember I asked you how you should react if someone says they love you?” When Plaxum nods, I continue, “The thing is, I need more advice. How would I go about… telling someone I love them back?”

Plaxum sits up, smiling. “So who is it?”

My face burns. “Promise you won’t laugh or tell anyone.”

“I promise,” Plaxum says.

So I whisper, “Katie.”

Plaxum smiles. “Oh, that’s so sweet. Is she your first ever crush?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’ve never fallen in love before. Anyway, what should I do?”

“I think it’s quite simple. You just need to bring it up when you’re somewhere private, and be as calm as you can. You just say something like, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said and I love you too’, and if it leads to a kiss you can kiss, and if it doesn’t it doesn’t.”

A kiss? I hadn’t even thought about that. I hate being kissed, which is why I don’t let my family members kiss me. Although in my dream, I wanted to kiss her. I hope this isn’t going to be a case of my sensory issues ruining something I want to do.

Still, I smile at Plaxum and say, “Thank you. That was a lot of help.”

Plaxum grins. “Glad I could be of assistance.”

And even though I’ve got an idea how to do this now, the way my stomach flutters with anxiety makes my smile falter.

 

2

At 7:58am, when we have all eaten breakfast and are currently doing nothing other than watching rubbish on TV, Plaxum turns to look at Papa and says, “Coran?”

Papa was slumped against Dad, his eyes half closed, but he jumps when she speaks and looks at her. “Sorry, love, what was that?”

“Nothing. I just… I was just wondering if, well, there’s nothing we actually need to do right now, so could we maybe get to the Holt house early?”

My eyes widen; is she doing this for my benefit, to give me time alone with Katie before we have to go to sixth form?

It turns out that she isn’t. Although her reason is still very nice.

“Is there a reason why?” Dad asks.

Plaxum blushes. “I want to talk to Colleen. If I’m gonna end up living with her, I want to get to know her better. And I want to thank her. Wanting to adopt a stranger just to help your friend is an amazing thing to do, and I want to thank her. Is… is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Dad says.

“That’s a lovely idea, love,” Papa says. “Well, if these two have no protests, we can go right now.”

Lance shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“Neither do I,” I say, although the thought of spending time at Katie’s house makes me wring my hands together.

So the four of us head out to the car (Plaxum and I waving at Dad, Lance hugging him and Papa kissing him) and head off to see Katie and Colleen.

“They won’t mind, will they?” Lance says.

“I don’t think so,” Papa says. “Katie has to get up for sixth form, so they should both be awake. And we’re all friends, so it’ll be fine.”

As we drive, I close my eyes to stop myself getting sensory overload, and think about Katie. I think about Plaxum’s advice and how I know I really do love her back and how I’m going to tell her. Will we start going out after that? How do you even go out with someone? I should have asked more questions.

When we arrive at the Holt house, my heart is pounding. Papa parks the car at the side of the road and we call get up, walking down the garden path. Plaxum and Papa reach the door first, Papa knocking, whilst Lance and I follow behind them.

The door is opened by Katie, who smiles and says, “Hi, you guys! What brings you here?”

“I was just wondering if I could see Colleen,” Plaxum says.

“No problem. She’s in the living room.”

Plaxum heads for the living room, Lance and Papa following. But I hesitate.

“Katie?” I say.

She looks at me. “Yeah?”

“Can we talk?”

“Uh, yeah, of course. Want to go to my room?”

I blush. “Yes, if that’s all right.”

“It’s fine. Come on up.”

And I follow Katie up the stairs and into her room. I can’t help thinking about the last time I was here, when I visited Katie and we made up after our fight. Her room is even more of a mess now, and it makes me feel sick when I remember Colleen was pushed down the staircase I just walked up.

Katie and I sit on her bed. This is it. Time to tell her. Time to follow Plaxum’s advice.

Time to tell Katie her feelings are requited.

“Katie, remember when you said you love me?” I say.

Katie blushes. “Um, yeah. Why?”

“Because… I’ve been thinking about what you said a lot these last few days and…” I take a deep breath and say four simple words that make so much sense. “I love you too.”

Katie gasps. “Allura… I…”

She starts laughing, grinning broadly. She gets to her feet and flaps her arms up and down, spinning around on the spot to face me.

“You love me too?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Oh my God, I, uh – do you want to go out with me?” she asks, stumbling over her words as her hands flap.

I nod again, smiling. “I’d love too.”

Katie laughs again, rushing back across the room and sitting beside me. She reaches for my hand and I hold it. “This is so amazing. I hope I’m not being too forward, but c-can I kiss you?”

It makes sense to be truthful; after all, Katie is autistic too, so she also knows about sensory problems. “The thing is, I might have sensory issues around kissing. So it might not work. But I’m still okay to try.”

“That’s okay,” Katie says, nodding. “We don’t have to carry on if you don’t like it.”

And I sit still as Katie leans closer to be, so close I can smell her minty breath from brushing her teeth and see pale freckles on her nose. And she kisses me.

She kisses me.

She kisses me.

Carefully pressing our lips together, Katie kisses me. And… it doesn’t feel weird. Her lips against my lips doesn’t set off my sensory issues. Maybe it’s because the texture of our lips is the same. But whatever it is, it doesn’t make me feel gross.

Still, I don’t really know what to do, and am still sitting there very still when Katie pulls away.

“How as that?”

“Nice. Not that I have much experience in kissing.”

“Me neither. So it was good?”

I nod and squeeze her hand. “It was good.”

Katie grins. “I’m so glad.”

“Um, while we’re here and everyone else is downstairs, do you think we should… tell them?” I say. “I mean, and then it’s out of the way.”

“No, that’s a good idea. Let’s go.”

And, still holding my hand, Katie leads me back down the stairs. We head to the living room, where Plaxum is currently Colleen as Lance smiles and Papa looks like he’s going to cry. We stay in the doorway, watching the scene with our hands joined, until it looks like their conversation has ended.

“Mum?” Katie says. “Can we say something?”

“Of course, darling,” Colleen says, and everyone looks at us.

“The thing is… me and Allura are going out.”

“Really?” Lance says.

Papa says, “Congratulations!”

“How lovely,” Colleen says.

And Plaxum simply gives me a very knowing smile.

And I grin. I knew everyone would accept me dating Katie, but it’s still so nice to hear. I love them all so much.

 

3

Katie and I make a decision to tell Hunk about our relationship at lunchtime. So when we are all sat around our usual table, Katie says, “Hunk, there’s something we’d like to talk to you about.”

“Oh, okay,” Hunk says, smiling. “What is it?”

Katie looks at me. It is my turn.

“We’re going out,” I say.

Hunk looks at me, and then at Katie. An even bigger smile crosses his face.

“That’s so nice. I’m so happy for you, guys,” he says.

Unfortunately, this lovely moment is ruined by a certain person we all hate.

“You’re going out?” Kate spits, standing in front of our table with that hateful grin on her face.

“Yeah. And?” Katie says, glaring at Kate.

“Fuck, you’re such weirdoes!” Kate says, laughing a horrible laugh.

“And what’s wrong with that!?” I say, standing up. “What’s wrong with being weird?”

“Not everyone’s as pathetically obsessed with being normal as you, you know,” Hunk says, glaring at her.

“And what the fuck is normal supposed to be, anyway?!” Katie yells.

At this point, a teacher steps in to break up our argument. None of us get in trouble, so the moment was more than worth it. I give Katie a quick kiss in front of Kate just to piss her off, and Katie hugs Hunk.

He’s such a wonderful friend.

 

4

After school, I sit beside Dad on the sofa bed. We’re the only ones in the room, and I have a feeling that the others left the room for this exact reason (it’s as though everyone can read minds except for me).

“Dad?” I say.

“Yes darling?” Dad says, looking at me.

“Um… I’m going out with Katie.”

“That’s nice, darling.”

I stare at Dad, amazed to see his totally understated reaction, and start laughing.

“What? If you told me you were going out with a boy you wouldn’t expect me to freak out and go on about how much I love you in an attempt to make sure you know I accept you. Because you know I accept you, and I don’t see why you dating a girl should be any different.”

Dad smiles at me. Still laughing, I hold his hands and say, “I love you, Dad.”

So that’s it. Everyone important to me knows that I have started a relationship with Katie, and it went so well.

Life has been so difficult these last few weeks, but times like this prove it is worth it.

I know I used to think about the past and wish our family life could be like it was before, but I don’t think that is the case anymore. The past was lovely, but… but even though the present hasn’t been very good, it is right now. And I know I don’t know if the future will also be good, but it looks like it will be. And isn’t that the point of life anyway: that there are ups and downs and the future is a mystery, no matter how scary that might seen, that is waiting for you to explore?

Because, yes, I don’t know how things are going to go. But right now, life is brilliant. I am going out with Katie and Dad doesn’t have cancer and Dad and Papa’s relationship is stable again and Katie and Colleen are away from William and Plaxum is away from her family and… yeah, everything is good right now. And… and I want to explore the future, to see how my nice new life goes with everyone I love.

And as I remember what Kate said to be, I realise that my life and my family isn’t normal in the slightest – I am autistic and asexual and I have two dads and I have a girlfriend and my brother has got his girlfriend pregnant – but I don’t care. I suppose Katie was right when she said about what even is being normal, because it is hard to explain the idea of normality. But my life certainly isn’t normal.

Nothing about being an Altea-Smythe is normal, and I like it this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this story! Your comments and support meant a lot while I was writing this!


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